


Reunion

by Lil_Lupin, Valaks



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: 5 and 1 fic, Alex is in a class of his own, Brooklands Students, But does he have all of his faculties intact, Gen, Nothing good ever happens at a school reunion, he super intended to never run into anyone again, less so unplanned ones, outsider pov, some of his classmates get schooled, these puns are almost as bad as Alex’s grades
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:08:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28118217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lil_Lupin/pseuds/Lil_Lupin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valaks/pseuds/Valaks
Summary: London was supposed to be a big enough city to get lost in, yet somehow the Brooklands Alums keep running into their most enigmatic ex-classmate. No one likes a high school reunion, but everyone does enjoy some good gossip and Alex Rider has always been an excellent source of that.ORThe 5 times Brooklands Alums ran into Alex Rider in the wild and the one time he ran into them.
Comments: 119
Kudos: 601





	1. Oakley Street Newsagents

Sunday mornings were always quiet in the shop.

The newsagents-come-grocery-store on the corner of King’s Road and Oakley Street opened at seven a.m. every single day of the week, but to be honest Josh wasn’t really sure why they bothered on Sundays. The only people who turned up before eleven were the pensioners, and they only ever bought the newspaper and a pint of milk. Not exactly the sort of stuff that paid the bills. But his dad was adamant - they were there for the community, _blah blah blah_. 

Josh was fine with being there for the community, but he wasn’t sure why it always had to be _him_ opening the shop every weekend. Especially when Fridays and Saturdays were always the nights he went out on the lash with the lads from school.

That was one good thing about a lack of customers, he supposed. No one cared if he was half-slumped over the counter nursing a hangover.

Last night had been a particularly heavy one. A complete riot - Ryan had thrown up all over the back of the taxi and they’d had to pile out and run off before the driver could catch them - but Josh was regretting the triple tequila shots now. The shop’s strip lighting was causing a sharp pain behind his eyes and, at seven-thirty on a December morning, it was still too dark to consider turning them off.

Josh comforted himself by resting his elbows on the counter and burying his head in his arms.

He might have been there for a minute or twenty. He was only roused when the bell above the shop door rang. 

A customer. Swearing under his breath, Josh raised his head from his stupor, half-expecting to see a disapproving glare from a pensioner shuffling his way towards him, aiming for the papers in front of the till. 

But whoever it was had already disappeared behind the shelves. Josh caught a glimpse of a tall figure with blond hair. They looked young-ish - maybe around Josh’s age - but he couldn’t really tell from here. Grimacing, he rubbed his eyes and rested his cheek on his hand, trying to look like he might be semi-alive. 

He could already feel his eyelids drooping. He was _so_ hungover _-_

Something was dumped on the counter in front of him and he forced his eyes open again. He saw baked beans. Bread. Butter. Milk (of course). The staples; nothing unusual. 

“ _Shit,_ ” he heard a voice say, and Josh looked up to see the blond man turning away. But it was too late. Even Josh’s slow, alcohol-soaked brain could recognise him at this distance.

“ _A_ _lex?_ ”

The man Josh was sure was Alex Rider stopped. Turned with an obvious wince.

“Hi Josh.”

Josh gaped at him. He hadn’t seen Alex Rider since they were sixteen - since they’d left school. Josh and the lads sometimes talked about others at school, but no one had ever heard from Alex Rider. Someone reckoned he’d dropped out altogether after GCSEs, on account of the drugs; someone else thought he’d been home schooled and had gone to Oxbridge. 

Right now, Josh thought the first one had got it right. Alex seemed to have aged a lot more than the five years that had passed since Josh had last seen him. His face was thin and pale; there seemed to be dark creases under his eyes that were even worse than Josh’s. And… Josh’s eyes settled on his throat. There were a lot of bruises on it. Finger-shaped bruises.

The thing was, Alex didn’t exactly look like a druggy - well, not the kind Josh was used to running into. Alex looked fit and reasonably alert (a lot more than Josh felt after last night, anyway) and he was buying milk and bread at seven-thirty on a Sunday morning. 

Unbidden, Josh thought of the last time he’d seen bruises like that - back when Ryan had been seeing that bird from Fulham. He’d never pegged Alex as the type - but, then, he’d never pegged _Ryan_ as the type, either so… 

Josh realised he was staring. He straightened up from where he had been leaning on the counter. Before Alex had turned up, the last thing he’d felt like doing was talking, but he’d be the first to admit that working in a store had turned him into a bit of a gossip, and, anyway, the lads would kill him if he didn’t at least try to find out _something_ about Alex Rider. 

“How’s it going?” he asked. “Long time no see.”

“Yeah; it’s been a while.” Alex gave him a quick, thin smile, before nudging the bread closer to Josh: a clear cue to start ringing it. Josh ignored it.

“What’ve you been up to?” he asked keenly.

“Oh - er - ” Alex looked around, as if wondering - or maybe hoping - if there was someone waiting behind him. “Work, I guess? You?”

“Same.” Josh waved a hand at the shop. “Gonna take over Dad’s business one day.”

“Cool.” Alex lapsed into silence, his gaze dropping pointedly down to the counter again. Josh obliged by picking up the beans.

“So where do you work?” he asked. He was being deliberately slow, pretending to not be able to find the barcode on the can.

“Bank,” said Alex vaguely. “Same as my Uncle.” 

“Oh?” Maybe Alex had gone to Oxbridge after all. “D’you have to go to uni for that?” 

“Er - ” Alex frowned, staring at the beans, like he’d cottoned onto the fact that Josh was a lot more interested in asking questions than scanning his purchases. “Yeah,” Alex said after a few seconds, when Josh had finally flicked the barcode at the scanner and put the beans into a plastic bag. “Graduated last year. I’m on with them full time now.” 

“Really? What’d you do?” 

Alex shifted his weight in the way that all annoyed customers did. “I’m in their international department,” he said shortly. “Boring stuff.” 

The door suddenly chimed. Alex tensed, glancing over his shoulder. He always had been jumpy, Josh remembered as he craned his neck to look past Alex’s shoulder at whom had come in. 

It was Mr Ferris. Josh cursed under his breath as he saw the old man ambling into the shop. Ferris was an arsehole at best. At least this time Josh wouldn’t get a lecture about doing nothing. He picked up the butter and scanned it quickly anyway; he didn’t want to deal with the yelling that would come with him holding up the line. 

“So what happened to your neck?” he asked Alex, realising he probably only had another minute or two before Mr Ferris approached the till and Alex ran off. “Things get a bit frisky with the missus, did they?”

He grinned, glancing up, but he didn’t get a response. Alex seemed distracted, studying some of the tabloids next to him. He seemed to catch on one and his face bloomed into a smile - a proper one; not the awkward half-grimace he’d flashed Josh earlier - as he added it to the stack on the counter. The _Daily Mail_ . Josh couldn’t stop himself making a face. Honestly, he had expected Rider to be above that tripe. This was Chelsea, for Pete’s sake. Josh usually only sold the _Mail_ to pinch-faced Ms McKaskill. He didn’t know why they kept it in stock; whatever his Dad said about it bringing customers into the store to get other things, the most Ms McKaskill ever splurged was 49p on ginger snaps. 

“The _Mail_?” He couldn’t keep the incredulous tone out of his voice.

“Hmm?” Alex was still searching the side panel, palming a bag of gummy bears.

“The _Daily Mail_ ,” Josh pressed, taking the bag and wondering if Alex was slow after all. “Wouldn’t picture you as the type.” 

“Oh.” Alex’s grin widened; he met Josh’s eyes for the first time. “They’re the only news source I trust. Everyone else is just government rubbish.” He sounded almost proud.

It took Josh a second to process that. _Alex Rider_ , who apparently had a degree and job in banking, only read the _Daily Mail_ and reckoned it was the only trustworthy newspaper _._ There’d always been something weird about him, Josh thought, but he was starting to wonder if Alex was a bit more fucked up than any of them had realised. He hurried through scanning it and laid on top of the shopping bag.

Alex had already laid a twenty on the counter and was reaching for the bag, ready to leave.

“Don’t you want your change?” Josh asked.

“No; you keep it,” Alex said. “Use it to get yourself educated on the _Mail_.” He had to be fucking with him, Josh thought, but before he could ponder more Alex was slipping towards the door. Josh heard the bell chime as Alex let himself out. 

Ferris put his milk on the counter. Josh braced himself for the tirade that was coming.

“Can’t believe he reads the _Mail_ \- what an idiot,” Ferris complained and Josh couldn’t help but laugh. 

It was only several minutes later, after Ferris had gone and Josh was back to contemplating his hangover, that he realised Alex had never given him a straight answer about the bruises.

Although - he hadn’t _denied_ Josh’s theories, had he?

Josh got out his phone, grinning again. The lads were going to have a field day with this one.


	2. South Kensington Underground Station

Rachel was proud of the fact that she was finally a junior doctor, but _God_ were there a lot of downsides to the job. 

The first being the hours. The second being that Newham Hospital was a stupidly long way from her mum’s house in South Kensington.

It really was time to move out, she thought moodily as she sat on the District line at midnight on Wednesday. Every time she brought it up, her mum had a fit, and there was a lot to be said for living rent-free in London, but this was getting ridiculous. Grace from school had offered her a room and West Ham was a lot closer to the hospital than South Ken. Rachel could cycle to and from work. Avoid these God-awful journeys with all the weirdos that ended up on the tube at this time of night. 

Take her carriage this evening. It was barely half full, but, aside from a bloke opposite who looked like he might be a city trader - or maybe a lawyer? - Rachel was pretty sure she was the only one there was who wasn’t drunk or high. Or a prostitute, she thought snidely as she eyed the two women standing near the door: they looked older than her, but were wearing leather shorts that finished so high up the thigh it was difficult to tell if the women hadn’t just put on their underwear and walked out of the house.

And then there were the ones that moved up and down the carriages asking for money. 

Rachel clicked her teeth as she heard the rattling noise of someone opening the door that separated the carriages. You weren’t even supposed to move between the carriages except in emergencies, but the beggars on the tube did it all the time. She just hoped this one wasn’t going to play the accordion - someone had done that when they’d stopped at Bromley-by-Bow and it had nearly done her head in after a twelve hour shift. 

Warily, she glanced up. 

It wasn’t someone stopping to ask for money. It was a tall, handsome man - about her own age - dressed in a shirt and suit trousers, whose eyes swept over the carriage before he started moving quickly down it, his face hard, his eyes fixed ahead and serious. Rachel recognised him at once.

Alex Rider.

The one from school everyone had said was a druggy, although Rachel hadn’t believed it; not since Alex had turned up to sit the A level exams at her sixth form college - even though she hadn’t seen him there all year, or the year before that. Anyway, he didn’t look remotely high on drugs now. Rachel could tell; at Newham Hospital, overdoses were a dime a dozen. Alex’s gaze was too focused, too alert.

He passed her, and Rachel opened her mouth and then closed it again. He didn’t look like he was ready to stop for a chat - and, anyway, what was she going to say, exactly? They weren’t far from South Kensington; she was tired; and the last thing she felt like doing was getting embroiled in a catch up with a guy she hadn’t cared about at school and probably cared about even less now. But she watched him as he continued up the carriage, and, then, when he reached the end, opened the door to go through to the next car along.

Well, Rachel thought, slightly irritated, Alex never _had_ followed any of the rules. 

She adjusted her position, crossing one leg over the other. She was conscious that her heart was beating a little quicker than it ought to be; she felt flushed and on edge. Seeing Alex had unsettled her in the way that any unexpected social encounter did. She told herself that was it, and not that Alex was even more good-looking than he’d been at school. A distant memory of giggling over Alex in form time came back to her. She should have tried to snap a picture of him as he went past to show Grace. Maybe they could look him up on Facebook instead.

She’d got out her phone to check before she remembered there was no signal on the Underground. She almost rolled her eyes at herself - how tired _was_ she? - before she heard a loud rattling and realised that the door between the carriages had opened once more. She looked up, half-expecting to see Alex again.

It wasn’t Alex. It was a much shorter man - Caucasian, perhaps in his fifties, with thinning hair and a suit. He almost fell into the carriage, scrambling to shut the door behind him, before he shot off down the car, almost tripping over the feet of the lawyer-or-maybe-trader opposite Rachel in the process. He’d let himself through the door at the other end in seconds.

Not a beggar either. 

God, this night was getting weirder and weirder.

At least she was nearly home. Rachel breathed a sigh of relief as the train rushed into South Kensington station, and she stood up, hoisting her backpack over her shoulder as she picked her way to the doors. The train halted; there was a split second; and then a chime as the doors opened. 

Rachel stepped onto the platform. Then everything seemed to happen at once.

Screams, first of all. Rachel stopped dead. Looking for something wrong, her eye was drawn to a woman, dressed all in black, moving more quickly than the other people on the platform, heading away from the train and towards the exit. Someone lunged after her, but there were other people in the way. And then a shout - rising above the screams.

“Someone call 999!”

Rachel was pushing her way through the crowd, towards the shout, before she’d even thought about it. She wasn’t a paramedic but she _was_ a doctor. This was what she was trained for. If someone needed medical help - 

“I’m a doctor,” she said loudly, as she reached the part of the train everyone was huddled around. The crowd parted and Rachel could see into the carriage.

Her heart seemed to stop.

She wasn’t sure what she saw first - that it was _Alex_ sprawled on the floor against the seats, or the red stain on his shirt, rapidly blooming from his shoulder across his front. He was still conscious, which was something, his left hand pressed against the wound - whatever it was; his fingers already slick with blood. He was struggling to push himself up, as if he wanted to stand.

Rachel’s brain kicked back into gear. She rushed forward, onto the train. 

“You need to stay down,” she said as she dropped beside him. “Help’s coming.”

Alex glanced at her, and away again. “I’m fine.”

Rachel nearly rolled her eyes. The number of times she had heard that and it was _always_ the men. 

“You’re losing blood,” she said clearly. “You’re going to go into shock.”

“‘M not,” was the muttered response. “S’not spurting. No artery damage.”

Rachel’s eyebrows shot up. A self-diagnoser. Rarely helpful; almost never right.

“Are _you_ a doctor?” she asked, a touch sharply.

Alex’s lip curled. He still wasn’t looking at her. “ _No._ ” His tone was sardonic. He did, at least, sound more alert than Rachel might have expected if there _was_ significant artery damage; he’d be losing blood - and consciousness - rapidly. “But I’ve been stabbed before.”

_I’ve been -_

There were far too many issues in that sentence to unpack. Rachel pushed the thoughts hurriedly to one side, focusing on what was important now.

“If you’ve been stabbed, you _definitely_ need to stay where you are,” she said. 

“Nope,” he shot back. “I need to get after the person who did it. Or has someone got her?”

_Her_. The woman Rachel had seen darting off the train?

“No, she’s gone,” she said, confused. Alex swore. He took his hand away from his shoulder to brace both hands on the seat, ready to push himself up. Rachel caught a glimpse of the wound - _high, likely just muscle damage, but still losing blood -_ before, shocked, she watched him haul himself to his feet. Almost at once he grabbed his shoulder again, letting out a grunt of pain. 

No. _No._ He couldn’t be allowed to go anywhere. He was going to end up killing himself. Rachel jumped to her feet too.

“Alex, _please_ be sensible,” she urged.

It was like she’d flipped a switch. The moment she said his name, he froze, gaze snapping to her at once. She watched as he searched her face; she could almost pinpoint the moment he recognized her, his brown eyes widening slightly and then brow furrowing almost at once: an unmistakable look of distrust.

She tried not to be hurt. They hadn’t exactly been friends at school but it hadn’t warranted _that_ reaction. 

“Look,” she said bracingly. “I’m trying to help you. I’m a doctor - ”

“I don’t need your help,” he almost snarled. He moved towards the doors, but lurched at once, catching hold of the pole in the middle of the carriage. Rachel’s heart jumped into her throat. She moved forward again.

“Alex - _please_ , you’ve lost a lot of blood already. The ambulance - ” But he was already staggering towards the doors again. Rachel watched, lips parted, as he stepped off the train, the small crowd splitting at once as he stumbled through them, clutching his arm. She caught the eye of an elderly woman staring at her. 

“You need to help him!” the woman demanded. Rachel quashed a spike of irritation - as if _she_ had been the one to refuse help; _that_ had all been Alex. “That woman was going to stab someone else, and he stopped it and told the man to run - ”

Right. Alex would have to be brave as well as handsome and _incredibly stupid_ , wouldn’t he?

Rachel set off after him. 

She darted across the platform, ducking through the arch and into the tiled passageway, with its too-bright strip lighting. It was relatively clear this time of night - a few businessmen who gave Alex a few suspicious looks as he staggered past, but honestly he fit right in with the drunks ambling their way in the opposite direction. Rachel kept her distance. She didn’t feel up to arguing with him again - not if he was determined to bleed himself out trying to get away from her - but she didn’t particularly want to let him out of her sight either. She watched him falter and catch himself on the wall - injured arm, fingers responsive and moving. _Definitely looking like muscular damage,_ she noted; _MRI to confirm._ He paused for several seconds, and for a moment she thought he was about to go down, but then he heaved himself upright and started moving again. 

They were spat into the atrium. There was a dogged determination in his steps. They reached the foot of the escalator - and _of course_ he started climbing. _Can’t even just let the thing do its job_ , she groused, following him. She cringed as he muscled past a woman standing in the middle of the escalator - definitely a tourist - and Rachel dodged around her as she let out angry expletives in a foreign language. 

Even injured Alex seemed faster than Rachel; by the time she got to the top of the escalator, huffing and puffing, Alex was almost at the ticket barriers. ( _Antalgic gait,_ she registered; _knees buckling. He won’t make it much further.)_ He was scrabbling in his pocket - maybe for his card - before he suddenly stumbled, leaning heavily against the ticket barrier. Rachel saw a smear of bright red on the silver metal and she lunged forwards, hand on his elbow, ready to catch him. 

He flinched, twisting around. She caught a glimpse of pale, sweaty skin and dilated pupils.

“Not you again,” he groaned. 

“You’re welcome,” she snapped before she could stop herself. She could hear the sound of sirens somewhere from the street outside, and felt a rush of relief. Alex must have heard them too because he bit out something - swear words, judging by the tone, but it was too garbled to make out - and hauled himself off the turnstile, maybe with the intention of continuing. But his knees finally gave out, and he went down with a noise that jarred Rachel’s ears. 

She did her best to catch him but given his size compared to hers it didn’t go well and they both collapsed onto the floor, Alex with his eyes closed and breathing heavily with small, pained noises.

Still conscious, then, Rachel noted, as she clambered back onto her knees. She had to admire his stubbornness.

“Alex, stay with me,” she said.

He nodded, once. But the shock was beginning to set in; his fingers were already slipping from his shoulder. She could see the rip in his shirt. There was a good chance he was still losing blood. Pressure, then. 

“This is going to hurt,” she warned, and without giving him time to process it, pushed firmly against the wound. Alex hissed out a breath. Better than she had expected from him - but then maybe she shouldn’t be surprised given that he had almost run out of the station with _a stab wound_. Christ.

The unmistakable clatter of metal of a gurney on the tiled floor; someone nearby Rachel hadn’t even noticed was calling the paramedics over. One of the tube workers - had that been who had shouted? - opened up the ticket barriers and two people in green overalls slid towards her.

“Alex Rider; twenty-three; stab wound right shoulder,” she rattled off. “Conscious; fingers and arm responding.” She took her hand off Alex’s shoulder, drawing back to let the paramedics get to work. 

People were staring at her - probably at all the blood on her hands and jacket - but she didn’t care; just watched the paramedics. They were talking to Alex in low tones - she thought she could hear pained, muffled replies. It felt like an age before Alex was on the gurney, padding already strapped to his shoulder, an oxygen mask on his face. He was still - _about time_ , she thought, and immediately felt guilty for it. 

“Excuse me - is he going to be OK?” she asked.

One of the paramedics looked around; started, as if he’d forgotten about her. Was that a bad sign? Had he been too worried about Alex?

But it was the blood on her that had startled him. “Are _you_ all right, ma’am?” She could hear the unspoken question - _Anything we need to look over?_

“I’m fine,” she said impatiently. “Is Alex going to be OK?”

“Oh - ” Rachel remembered just in time that the paramedic probably wasn’t supposed to tell her; but the fact she’d used Alex’s name likely relaxed him. “We’ll know more once we get him to hospital,” he said, and he sounded kind, in the way paramedics often did with family members. “It looks promising. Do you want to ride with him?”

Rachel hesitated. She knew what would happen if she said yes. She’d be treated as far more important than she was. Besides - did she _really_ want to get any more involved? She didn’t _know_ Alex. And _he_ certainly wouldn’t want her there, if his reaction to her was anything to go by. She had another twelve hour shift the next day. Honestly, all she wanted was a hot shower and bed. Maybe a strong drink.

“No, thank you,” she said. And then, because it would have looked suspicious if she hadn’t followed it up: “I’ll meet him. What hospital are you taking him to?”

“He requested St. Dominic’s.”

St. Dominic’s. She’d never heard of it. Private, then - and it had to be one of the more exclusive ones. 

Irritation had risen in her before she could stop it. What was wrong with the NHS, exactly? Alex needed emergency care - it wasn’t as though this St. Dominic’s would do a better job than St. Thomas’s would. The fact that Alex felt so strongly about it that he had made the request through the pain of a _stab wound in his shoulder_ got her back up even more. 

“I’ll meet him there,” she bit out tersely.

“All right, ma’am. Just go to the reception when you arrive - there’ll be some questions?”

“Sure.” She wouldn’t have been able to give them any more information than she’d already given them anyway.

The paramedic gave her another kindly smile. “He’ll be all right. He’s still conscious. Do you want to talk to him before we leave?”

_Oh God._ Would it look weird if she refused? She moved forward, the paramedic stepping out of the way so she could be next to Alex. His eyes were closed, but every now and then he would make a small, pained sound. Hesitantly, she patted his hand. His eyes opened.

She guessed they’d already given him drugs, or maybe it was the shock, because his gaze was unfocused, as if he couldn’t quite place her again. She felt bolder. 

“You’ll be OK,” she told him clearly. “So long as when you get to the hospital you _listen_ to the doctors instead of trying to be one.”

He was with it enough to understand _that_ \- he gave her a startled look, as if he’d expected a bit more compassion given that he was currently strapped to a gurney. 

Yeah, well, Rachel had expected _not_ to have to chase an injured Alex Rider through a tube station and get blood on her favourite coat. 

She stepped backwards. “You can take him,” she told the paramedics wearily, and watched as they wheeled him through the ticket barriers and towards the entrance to the street.


	3. The alley off Fulham Road

Simon “the Screw” Wheeler hadn’t got to be West London’s foremost drug dealer without being pretty fucking careful about the people he met. Double-crossing and business poaching - which usually just involved offing the person whose business you wanted to steal - was rife. Police stings were nearly as common. A lot of the people Simon had known over the years were either dead or in jail. 

Not Simon, though. He was smarter than most.

Which was why, when the new bloke on the block that called himself “Jockey” requested a meeting about a potential joint supplier arrangement, he was sure to send his second to go and meet the kid first before he even _thought_ about engaging with him himself.

“What’s this kid like, then?” he asked when Paul returned.

“He’s - er - not really a kid, Boss,” his second said. Paul was actually three years older than Simon, but he looked younger, his thin, angular face still riddled with teenage acne. He was a decent enough ally - cowardly enough both to crave the protection of Simon’s power and not to want to go after it himself. “He’s in his twenties, like us. Anyway, he _really_ knows his stuff. I think you oughta meet him.” 

There was something a bit too much like enthusiasm in Paul’s voice for Simon’s liking. Paul was never enthusiastic about anything. Mainly because he was stoned half the time. Simon eyed him suspiciously, wondering what this Jockey bloke said that had impressed him so much.

“How d’we know he’s not going to do us over?” 

Paul grinned, showing crooked and yellowing teeth. “Boss, _you’re_ the Screw.”

Yeah, he was. Simon had screwed over a lot of people, actually. It had started when he was fourteen and pretty much taken over the whole of Skoda’s outfit at his school when Skoda and his mates had mysteriously dropped off the planet for several months. Turned out Skoda had been in hospital with multiple fractures. His loss. By the time he’d come sniffing around again months later, Simon was running the show and he wasn’t about to give up the thousands he was turning over each week. Skoda hadn’t seemed that interested anyway; he’d copped it a few weeks after that falling over a railing. There were a lot of rumours Simon himself had done it, and he hadn’t discouraged them. Most people were suitably scared of him, and that was the way he liked it.

This Jockey, though. He’d rung Simon direct to his personal mobile - Simon was going to kill the person who’d handed over the number - and hadn’t sounded the least bit afraid. 

And now he seemed to have charmed the pants off Paul.

“Where did he come from?” Simon complained. “I’d never even heard of him until a few weeks ago. And now he says he wants in on our supplier deals?”

“He’s got a lot of customers, Boss. His phone was ringing non-stop while we were talking.” 

Huh. “How d’you know they were customers?”

“He put them on speaker phone.” Paul looked excited. “He charges them a lot. And he reckons he’ll give you 40%.”

Simon would prefer to make it 50% - or even 60% - but that wasn’t a bad starting point. Especially if Jockey was making as much money as Paul thought. 

“What’s his poison?” he asked gruffly.

“He ain’t got one, Boss. Laughed and said he wouldn’t touch the stuff.”

Not stupid, then. Happy enough to deal it out to others, but wouldn’t take it himself - same as Simon. Maybe there was a chance they _would_ get on.

A bit grudgingly, he set up the meeting for the next day. On Simon’s own turf - in an alleyway behind Dezzy’s Newsagents on Fulham Road. Simon took five of his boys along with him. Not Paul - he hadn’t stopped bloody going on about Jockey for the last twenty-four hours and he’d just be an embarrassment.

Jockey was late. Simon was pissed off about that. Not many people had the nerve to make him wait these days. 

“You brought your knife, mate?” He directed the question at Laurie, who he’d chosen to bring along for sheer size alone. 

“C’mon, there’s no need for that,” said a voice behind them, and all six of them spun around at once.

A tall man around Simon’s age was leaning against the fire escape stairs, thumbs hooked into the pockets of his jeans. He had dark blond, unkempt hair and a hard mouth, around which was playing an overconfident smirk that spoke of supreme unconcern at being outnumbered half a dozen to one. There was something eerily familiar about him, and it took Simon a moment to realise why.

“ _Rider?_ ” 

“Simon,” Alex Rider said smoothly. Simon’s men tensed at the familiar address, but Simon waved them off, frowning as he took in this new and unexpected development. 

Rider didn’t seem surprised to see him in the least. With Simon’s reputation in the business, that maybe wasn’t all that surprising. Rider’s involvement in it, on the other hand... That was far more interesting. From what he remembered Rider was smart enough, and, despite all rumors to the contrary, he had never done drugs at Brooklands. Simon would know.

“Wouldn’t picture you as the kind to get into this,” he said slowly.

Rider was unfazed by his hesitation, shrugging it off. “Money’s money,” he said. “Anyway, there’s not a lot of options for a drop out.” 

It was news to Simon that Rider had dropped out of Brooklands - he’d dropped out himself before the end of Year 11 - but Rider _had_ missed months of school at a time, if Simon remembered rightly. Probably if he hadn’t dropped out they would’ve made him repeat a year, and Simon inwardly acknowledged that the cocky bloke in front of him didn’t seem the type to tolerate going down a year. If Rider had got into this business for want of other options…

Some of Simon’s suspicion about “Jockey” marginally eased. A newcomer on the scene - especially one that could wind up Paul - had felt dangerous, like something was about to go down: cops or the narcs, like had happened to a mate of his in Manchester not long ago. Dealers, even newcomers, weren’t usually quiet about their presence - not to those who knew where to look. But Rider’s story he could buy. And Rider would be smart enough to keep things on the DL while he built a client base.

“So, what?” Simon asked, eying him. “You started running?”

“A few side jobs here and there,” Rider answered easily. “Turned into a full time gig a little later once I found enough work out there.”

“And where exactly is _there_?” Simon’s tone was pointed. He had most of Chelsea covered at this point. 

Rider must have caught onto his scepticism because he shook his head. “Less geographical, more clientele,” he said. “You know the type - bankers, barristers, businessmen…” He trailed off, but Simon got the picture clear enough: people who needed the good stuff just to get through the day. Alex Rider would be ideal to cater to them. He might have been a dropout but Simon could see him doing well in those circles. Good-looking and well-spoken - he’d been one of the more well off kids at Brooklands, Simon remembered. He hadn’t flaunted it like some but it had shown in the little ways - clothes, shoes, the things he talked about doing with his uncle. Simon hadn’t really been able to get into that market - not with his reputation and street-savvy manner - but with Rider…

“Why d’you need our help?” Simon asked suspiciously, still not willing to get all pally just yet. “Paul said you want in on our supplier deals. Where’ve you been getting it so far?” 

“Supplier got caught up in that sting in Manchester.” Rider’s expression was grim. “I need the good stuff. You had a reputation, so I figured you had access to the real deal. Turns out I was right. Paul told me you can put me in touch with Fleur?”

Fucking _Paul_. Didn’t he know when to keep his mouth shut? Fleur was Simon’s best supplier - the best supplier on the continent, actually - but dead secretive. Not many people could get a foot in the door with him. It’d been a big enough score for Simon to become one of his dealers, and he wasn’t sure Fleur’d be that delighted Simon was passing his details onto others.

“I don’t do personal favours.”

“Wouldn’t ask you to.” Rider was still at ease, his mouth curved into a small smile. “Was hoping to cut you in 40/60.”

If he was hitting up bankers and whatnot, that probably meant a decent wodge of cash per month, even at 40%, but Simon hadn’t got his nickname without good reason - nor was he going to be convinced about Rider just on the back of a few rich clients.

“Lump sum and I’ll give you supplier names,” he said.

Rider looked thoroughly unimpressed. “No supplier is going to take a cold call for the kind of product I need to keep my clients happy.”

The only two who would take cold calls at all were the Triads - who cut their product too much - and Davidson’s gang, who were too far into synthetics for the kind of purity Rider’s clients wanted. 

“Can you help me or not?” Rider asked, his tone tinged with a touch of impatience.

“Maybe,” said Simon evasively. “How much product do you have left?” That’d give him a reasonable idea of how much Rider tended to buy - how much money Simon might be in for. Whether it was worth the risk.

“Enough for a few weeks,” said Rider, equally vaguely. Then, as if sensing this wasn’t enough for Simon: “I buy heavy - never know when someone’s gonna want a big order with this group. So long as no one wants a hookers and blow-style party, I should be good through the end of the month.”

Smart. Rider clearly thought ahead: not many in their line of work did; but then most were just as hooked on their product as their clients. Paul had already told him Rider wasn’t, but Simon reckoned he would’ve been able to tell that for himself. Rider seemed too sharp - in fact, he looked a lot like he took care of himself. 

Rider was quickly checking all the boxes for someone Simon would want to work with. _If_ he was going to work with someone. 

“And if I say no?” he asked, hesitant to look too keen.

Rider shrugged again. “I go to my contacts on the continent and see what they have to offer until everything shakes back into place over here.”

He’d have preferred Rider needed him a little more just for the loyalty factor. But if he couldn’t have that, then having someone who treated it like the business it was instead of the source of their own next fix was almost as good. He knew Rider was a decent enough sort from school - if a bit straight laced back then. And Paul _had_ heard Rider on the phone with his clients, so he already knew they existed.

“Make it 50/50,” he decided, “and I think we can work something out.”

“Deal,” Rider said, holding out his hand. Simon caught the joke and grinned, shaking on it.

He was grinning a lot less three weeks later when Fleur got stung by Scotland Yard, Simon got hauled into the Old Bailey and sentenced to a year’s service at Her Majesty’s pleasure, and Jockey - mysteriously - disappeared without trace.


	4. Temple Hotel, Bloomsbury

“You’re late. That’s the second time this week.”

Bethany had to grit her teeth at her supervisor’s self-satisfied smirk. Sometimes - a lot of the time - she felt like punching it off his face. She busied herself with shrugging her coat off her overalls and hanging it up. 

“Chloe’s dad didn’t turn up,” she said. “I had to drop her at school.”

The lip of the smirk curled, and Beth knew what he was thinking. _I wouldn’t get this sort of shite from one of the boys._ She didn’t care. She’d known Rob - Bob the Builder, all the giggling receptionist staff called him - had hated the idea of having a woman on his handyman team the moment the hotel manager had introduced her. Hated the idea of a woman with purple hair and tattoos even more. But by then it was too late; Beth had already got the job. She could repair a plug socket and unblock a toilet as well as the next bloke, and she needed the money, so. She stayed at the Temple Hotel, despite Rob’s constant sniping. 

“I worked late last night and Monday,” she said. “So you owed me anyway.”

The smirk gave way to a scowl. Rob hated it when she had a point. “Yeah, well,” he said, “don’t fink I’m givin’ you overtime for that now.”

Beth bit her tongue between her front teeth. Never mind that she had worked two hours’ overtime the night before and was only ten minutes late. Never mind that she had really, _really_ wanted that money for Chloe’s fifth birthday next week.

“Just give me the job list,” she said, not even bothering to be polite about it.

He knew he’d got to her; she could tell from the triumphant look in his eyes. She all but snatched the list from him as he held it out, scanning her eyes down the list. 

“Room three-ten?” she said. “I fixed that window last week.”

“Apparently not,” said Rob with a sneer. “Cleaner reported it broken again, didn’t she?”

 _Did she?_ Beth felt like asking, but didn’t. “Right, fine,” she said. “I’ll do that first. No one’s in there, are they?”

“‘Course they aren’t.” Rob leered. “Make sure you do it prop’ly this time.”

 _Fuck off_ , Beth thought, and turned on her heel and marched off to her locker to get her toolkit.

Those bloody windows. The hotel was eighteenth-century, in the Bloomsbury district of London, and it was full of wooden sash windows that used to open until a toddler had tumbled out of one about five years before, and the hotel had finally put locks on all of them. The problem was that the locks were as rickety as the windows themselves, and could usually be ripped open with a little force. And some hotel guests were _very_ keen to have their windows open. 

But Beth thought she’d worked out how to tighten the locks so that the average hotel guest would have had a job doing that. She’d thought you’d need a hammer, or a wrench, to get past her work.

Maybe she wasn’t as good as she thought she was.

The cleaners were already on the third floor. Some of the rooms were open, showing stripped off beds; other rooms had the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign still hanging on them, even though it was past ten o’clock. _All right for some_. Beth got to room three hundred and ten, swiped her card on the reader outside and pushed down the door handle.

It wouldn’t budge.

Frowning, Beth scanned her card again. The reader lit up green; she pushed down on the handle. It stuck fast. She pressed her shoulder gently against the door. It remained closed.

“No one’s in three-ten, right?” she asked the cleaner coming out of the next room. The cleaner picked a piece of paper from his trolley. 

“Definitely empty,” he said.

 _Weird._ The key card never worked when it was locked from the inside, but there _was_ no one inside, so that couldn’t be it. _Must be a malfunction._

It didn’t matter. There was a manual override; all the staff had a standard-fitting key. Beth got hers out, jammed it into the lock and opened the door. 

The first thing that hit her as she entered was the ice-cold temperature of the room. Bloody hell, had someone left the window _open_? They had to be mad, in the middle of January. She’d have to turn the heating on if someone was going to check into the room that evening. 

After she’d fixed the window, of course. She set down her toolkit, closed the door behind her and then rounded the corner into the main part of the room.

And stopped, heart jumping into her throat.

The room wasn’t empty. The bed had been pushed from the middle of the room and shoved up against the open window. A fair-haired man was draped horizontally across the bed, propped up on his forearms, his shoes hanging off the end of the mattress, his head close to the window as he stared, unmoving - 

\- down the scope of a rifle.

“Oh. I - uh - ” Beth had never been accused of being at a loss for words. Ever. But right now her brain couldn’t register what was happening long enough to formulate a coherent thought. “I’ll just - ”

“Quiet,” the man breathed. To Beth’s horror, a hand came off the rifle to rest on a pistol on the bed she hadn’t noticed before. 

It was pointing at her.

_Oh God oh God oh God -_

“Okay!” she squeaked. “Just - just don’t - ”

The pistol twitched and Beth shut her mouth with an audible click. The man’s eyes hadn’t left the scope once but the gun was pointing right _at_ her, and _oh God -_

The room fell silent. 

After a few seconds, the man’s hand lifted from the pistol and moved back to the rifle. Beth registered that she was shivering - though whether from the icy draft coming in or the shock, she wasn’t sure. Bizarrely, she found herself zeroing in on the man’s utter stillness as he watched through the scope. How the hell was _he_ not cold? His shirt was long sleeved but loose and obviously thin; a jacket lay abandoned on the bed next to the pistol. He had to have been lying there for a while; his breath was coming out in small white puffs in the freezing air.

“Cover your ears,” he suddenly said, voice soft.

“Wha - ?”

“ _Now._ ” 

Hesitantly, feeling mad, Beth covered her ears. 

There was a deafening crack. 

Something shot backwards from the rifle.

Beth screamed. 

The man was already moving, rolling away from the window and pulling the rifle back. An echoing ringing seemed to have filled the room. She could hear the faint sound of screams from outside, but it sounded like she was listening to them through cotton wool. She was frozen to the spot, giddy, and she could only whimper as she saw the man’s hand move towards the trigger of the rifle. But he only pulled a square piece off the middle, tossing it on the bed, before his hand moved up to the barrel, twisting it to dismantle it.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded, glancing up to look at her. His brown eyes were serious. She had the awful, crazy thought that he looked familiar.

“I - no?” How could she be? He hadn’t shot _her_.

“Good. You were standing close, and casings can travel - ” He popped off the barrel and set it down on the bed. And then froze, his eyes snapping to the door just as there was a loud knock. 

“You all right in there?” someone called.

One of the cleaners. They must have heard her scream. 

The man’s gaze was sharp. “Tell them it’s fine.” Something familiar in his voice too, she thought, but her brain - still rattling from the crack that had filled the room when he had pulled the trigger - wouldn’t catch up.

“I know you.” It was a stupid thing to say - for God’s sake, he was _holding a gun_ \- but her mouth seemed to have disconnected itself from the rest of her.

A slight furrowing of his eyebrows as he searched her. He looked puzzled.

“Hey! Everything OK?” The voice called again - more urgent this time. She heard the sound of someone trying the door handle. 

In one fluid motion - so fast she barely had time to process it - the man had snatched up the pistol from the bed, pointing it not at Beth but in the direction of the door. 

“ _Tell them it’s fine_ ,” he said. He looked calm enough, but a hint of an edge had entered his voice.

 _Oh God._ Would he shoot whoever came through the door? Kill them and then her? There was something horribly cold in his eyes.

“It’s OK!” she shouted. Her voice sounded shaky - and far away.

“You sure?” The cleaner’s voice sounded worried.

Beth’s eyes jumped back to the man. 

“You dropped something,” he supplied. 

“Just - just my toolbox!” she called. “I’ve got it!”

“Oka-ay,” came the cleaner’s voice. They clearly thought she was nuts. She _felt_ nuts. She could only watch as the man stood, stock still, gun still aimed at the door.

It took several seconds for him to lower it. When he did, his gaze slid towards back to Beth, brow furrowing again, before his expression slipped into something more neutral. He took a step towards her. 

Beth flinched backwards. He halted, something wry passing over his face.

“Toss me that,” he said, nodding to something at Beth’s feet. Hesitantly, she looked down. A leather bag was lying against the bed base. She bent down and picked it up. It was worn, and supple. Unbranded. The sort of thing that could fit in with any number of bags brought through the hotel.

It took a lot of self control to not throw it in his face and run. If he’d just been holding a knife she would’ve risked it - was sure she could have made it out of the door in time. But he still had the pistol in his hand. 

She threw the bag lightly towards him. He grabbed it effortlessly from the air and set it down on the bed. He put down the pistol next to it, starting to pack the pieces of the rifle away. Numbly, she registered a whole new respect for what could fit into a person’s luggage, even as she inched towards the door.

“I wouldn’t move if I were you.”

She halted, struck again by something weirdly familiar about his voice - not too deep; pleasant-sounding even through the not-so-veiled threat. But he didn’t seem to recognise her.

Or maybe he’d decided not to. 

Maybe she should do the same.

Instead, she studied his face as he packed away the rifle. Strong jaw; clean shaven. Thin, chiseled lips. Long eyelashes. The white line of a scar on his neck.

Where did she know him from?

He zipped up the bag, and turned to look at her. There was a hint of weariness about him. 

“You might as well get comfortable,” he said. “They’ll want to talk to you.”

Beth’s heart constricted. Of course she wouldn’t just be allowed to walk away - not after what she’d seen. He didn’t seem in a hurry to kill her, but she’d seen the films; she knew there was a lot more they could do than put a bullet through her head.

“No - please - I’ve got a daughter. I’ve got money - ” She didn’t, of course, but she stopped up short anyway as he held up his hands, splaying his palms open: the universal sign for _no harm intended._ She saw calluses on his palms - a jarring reminder of what those hands had been holding a few moments ago. Automatically, she took a step backwards.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “Neither will the person Dispatch sends.”

“Dispatch?” she asked blankly. 

He sighed. “They’ll explain. Can you sit down?” He gestured to the plush armchair in the corner. “You’d better keep your hands where I can see them.” 

She didn’t want to sit down. She wanted to run, screaming, in the other direction. She took another step backwards, back hitting the wall, hands pressed against it as if she could somehow fall through it and away from him. He eyed her, sighed, and took out his phone. A few taps and he held it to his ear. 

“It’s been handled,” he said after a few seconds - the person on the other end must have picked up. Beth could hear the muted sound of another voice. “Visual confirmation. But I’ve got a civilian witness.” There was tension in that statement. “Temple Hotel; room three-ten. Can you send someone to handle it?”

 _Send someone to handle it_. Beth’s stomach lurched. She watched his face tighten as he listened to the voice on the other end, and then he hung up. He didn’t look happy. 

“Please,” she whimpered. “Just let me go - ”

“No one’s going to hurt you,” he repeated. “Dispatch’ll be here in twenty minutes or so. Why don’t you sit down?”

She stayed frozen against the wall. With a small sigh he stepped forward; she tried to jerk back again and had nowhere to go; but all he did was take her gently by the shoulders and steer her towards the armchair. She noted numbly he’d left the gun on the bed - if she was going to make a break for it, now would be the moment - but her legs suddenly felt like jelly; if he hadn’t been holding her up she might have collapsed. She fell into the chair, conscious that she was shivering again - or maybe it was shaking; she didn’t know anymore. 

“Do you want some water?” he asked as he stepped backwards. “You look very pale.”

The words seemed to jolt something inside her back to life. “ _Pale?_ ” she said incredulously. “Of course I look pale! You just _shot_ someone - oh my _God -_ ” She was conscious that her voice was quivering; there was something cold and wet on her face, and she realised, with horror, that she was crying. She closed her eyes, trying to compose herself. “Just - _please_ don’t kill me,” she said after a moment, her voice cracking. “I have a daughter, she’s - ”

She broke off. Conscious that she could hear the man moving around, she opened her eyes to see he had one of the free bottles of water left for guests in his hands, and had opened it. He held it out to her. 

“Drink it,” he said calmly. “You’ll feel better.”

“Is it poisoned?” She’d blurted out the question before she could stop herself. She stiffened, but thankfully he seemed to have a sense of humour: his lip quirked. Another stabbing sense of _recognition_.

“Only if you give it to your guests that way.” 

She laughed a little at that - but it was hysterical laughter; not quite sane. She closed her eyes, feeling more wet on her cheeks, before a plastic bottle was pressed into her hand. Without thinking, she tipped her hand back and took a long glug. 

“Hey.” A hand on hers; her eyes flew open but the man was only tugging the bottle downwards again. “Small sips or you’ll make yourself sick,” he said. “The cleaners won’t like that.”

Did he think he was being funny? He acted like she hadn’t been called for clean up. Or wasn’t a mother who’d done it all the time. It wasn’t worth arguing, though. She eyed him, and then nodded. He took his hand away as she took another small sip. It _did_ make her feel better, some of the dryness in her mouth easing. 

“What’s your name?” he asked. His voice was almost gentle. She could tell what he was trying to do - calm her down. Get her talking. At least whilst he questioned her he was nowhere near the gun on the bed. Should she lie? Probably not. Not to someone who might actually kill her if he found out the truth later.

“Bethany.”

He recoiled. So subtly it was no more than the smallest of twitches backwards, horror in his gaze for a split second before it was gone, buried back beneath the hard mask as if nothing had happened. 

But Beth had seen it. The flash of recognition.

“I _do_ know you!” she said.

“No, you don't - “

Beth cut across him. She was beginning to feel more in control of herself now - he’d been right about the water. “Where from?” she demanded. “A bar? College? School?”

“ _No_.” His voice was harsh; Beth flinched as if he’d hit her. He didn’t seem to care. “We’re not talking about this,” he said. “It’s better for both of us if you don’t know who I am. You can thank me later. Drink your water.”

His tone didn’t leave a lot of room for disagreement. Grousing internally, _sure_ she was right, Beth sat back in the chair. Took another glug of the water. Remembered he’d said to drink it slowly, and decided to drain it out of spite. 

“ _Careful_ \- ” 

It was already empty. She dropped the bottle into the bin beside the chair, not quite daring to glare at him, but wanting to convey her annoyance nonetheless.

“How do you feel?” He sounded tense.

“Fine,” she bit out, wondering why he cared. Before, suddenly, it clicked. “ _Oh my God_ ,” she breathed, gaze jumping to his anxious expression. “You _did_ poison me!”

“I didn’t _poison_ you,” he said. He sounded slightly affronted. “I gave you something to take the edge off.”

“Drugs.” She should have noticed; she’d felt calmer before, but now she was beginning to feel _tired,_ her body heavy in the chair. “Oh my God,” she murmured again. “I’m going to die. I’m going to die and no one’s going to be there for Chloe and - ”

“You are _not_ dying,” he said, looking impatient. “It’s a fast-acting sedative. Just like they’d give you in a hospital. Sort of.”

He didn’t sound very convincing. “What if I’m allergic?”

His mouth quirked. “There’s an ambulance on the street.” 

Was he trying to be funny again? “They might be a little busy with the _body_ of the person you _murdered_ ,” she tried to snap, but her tongue was beginning to feel thick and it came out less heated than she intended. 

His smile dropped. He didn’t respond. She didn’t have all that much to say either, honestly; and the thought of trying to open her mouth again was daunting. She felt herself sinking further into the chair. The brown eyes didn’t leave her. She was beginning to feel very strange. She looked around the room, and her vision seemed to have trouble catching up, as if it had somehow disconnected from the rest of her. Her stomach was churning; she felt nauseous. She closed her eyes. 

Silence - she didn’t know for how long. Then she heard voices - quiet, but bright. She opened her eyes. The man was standing in front of the TV; he had turned it on. She frowned. It seemed to be something about cakes. The Great British Bake Off? She blinked. Except the blink seemed to take longer than normal; the next time she opened her eyes, she saw the red banner of BBC News, and the man was sitting down on the bed.

She heard knocking. It sounded odd. Not the three taps that they had to give to get into a room but an irregular pattern. The room seemed to tilt as the man stood up from where he was sitting and she closed her eyes again.

The slam of a door. Voices. They sounded tense. Beth opened her eyes and found herself staring, dazedly, at another man - this one in a suit.

“Bloody hell,” the newcomer said. He sounded far away. “How much did you give her?”

“She wasn’t supposed to drink the whole thing.” 

“ _Helpful_ , Rider.”

Rider. That felt like it should mean something, but the time it was taking her to blink was slowing down even more, the voices fading to a murmured buzz. She felt, rather than saw, hands on her upper arms, and tried to scream, but her mouth wouldn’t cooperate. She was feeling sick again. 

She squeezed her eyes closed and the world went quiet.

* * *

When she woke, she found herself staring at the moulded ceiling of a period hotel room. _Room 310._

Her head was pounding, but she forced herself to raise it, blinking blearily around the room. The window was closed; it felt cool, but warmer than before. The bed she was lying on had been moved back to the middle of the room. And there was a man sitting on the chair in the corner of the room, reading a newspaper.

 _Not the one with the gun_ , she registered hazily. This one was in a pinstriped suit; he looked more like a bank manager than an assassin or a sniper or _whatever_ he’d been - 

“Oh God,” she choked at the memory.

The man looked up. 

“Ms Marsh,” he greeted pleasantly. How did he know her name? “Is there anything I can get you?” 

“Paracetamol,” she croaked. It was the only thing her pounding head could think about. 

“On the bedside table.”

She turned to her left. There were two white pills and a bottle of water. She reached for them before she remembered. _The water -_

“It’s clean,” the man said, as if he’d read her mind - or maybe he’d just noticed her hand draw back. “You don’t have to worry.”

She glanced warily at him. He had to be in on this - he’d just sat there while she’d been passed out - but there wasn’t a gun in sight. She picked up the bottle of water and, on finding the cap sealed, cracked it open. She palmed the pills and knocked back a mouthful of water. And then another. Her head cleared a bit - the effect of rehydration more than the paracetamol. 

“All right?” The man seemed almost friendly. Beth ignored him and took another sip of water. Her eyes trailed to the clock on the bedside table. It read 16:08.

_Chloe._

“I have to go,” she blurted out, moving clumsily so that water sloshed down her front before she managed to set it back down on the bedside table. “My daughter - ”

“It’s been handled.”

 _Handled._ That word again. Fear and outrage seemed to conspire to freeze Beth in place. “If you’ve hurt her - ”

“She’s fine.” The man held up a single hand. “She’s at home with your mother, who picked her up from school. Since there was an emergency and you were unable to leave the hotel.”

Something loaded in his words. In spite of her headache, Beth got the gist. “Since you drugged me, you mean.” 

The man cocked his head. “You weren’t supposed to drink the whole bottle of water,” he said sternly. 

Right. Like it was _her_ fault. Beth had had enough.

“I’m going home,” she said, and pushed herself off the bed. 

At once her headache exploded; she had to sit down again. 

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible just yet,” said the man. Was there something vaguely threatening in his tone? She turned her head, the pain subsiding a fraction again now she wasn’t on her feet. 

“What do you mean?”

The man stared at her, unblinking. “You witnessed some things today that you weren’t supposed to,” he said. There was a pause that felt heavy. “Things we would rather like not to be discussed.” 

It felt like all the air in the room had suddenly been sucked out. Beth hitched a breath, her mind going back to the rifle, the blond man on the bed - 

_Rider,_ her mind supplied, and she nearly choked.

“ _Alex,_ you mean?”

Her mouth had spoken before her brain had caught up - again. _It’s better for both of us if you don’t know who I am._

“You know Alex,” the man said. It wasn’t a question. Beth remembered the moment Alex had recognised her. _Alex Rider._ What the hell was he mixed up in?

“We went to school together,” she whispered. 

“Yes.” The man didn’t seem surprised. Beth sucked in a breath.

“Please,” she said. “It’s not like we talk or anything. I swear I won’t say anything - ”

“I’m glad to hear that. But we’ll have to be assured of your silence, I’m afraid.”

The man picked up a briefcase at his feet. Sure he was about to kill her, Beth shrunk back on the bed, too woozy to consider making a run for it, but trying to get away anyway. 

But the man didn’t pull out a gun. Instead, he pulled out several sheets of paper stapled together. Beth stared as he stood up, walked forward and handed them to her. 

“You’ll need to read and sign that,” he said. “There’s a pen on the bedside table.”

Beth inhaled and looked down at what he’d handed her.

_This is a notification that you are subject to section 1 of the Official Secrets Act 1989…_

Beth didn’t know what she’d thought this was. Or what would happen. Not this. Her eyes focused on the word _Official_. Not terrorists, then. Or the mafia. Or whatever else she might have thought. 

But Alex had still been hanging out of the window holding _a sniper rifle._ The good guys didn’t do that. Right?

_This has to be some kind of hoax._

“What if I don’t want to sign?” she asked, braver than she felt.

A thin smile. Icy. _Dangerous_.

“I don’t suggest you want to find that out. And if I were you, I’d pay particular attention to the undertaking not to disclose what you saw here today. Were you to break that undertaking, the official sanctions are set out on page 2. The unofficial sanctions…” 

He let the sentence hang. 

_Chloe._ Somehow, Beth knew. She shivered, feeling colder than she had when the window had been opened. _Not Chloe._ _Please not Chloe._

All this because of a boy she’d gone to school with. She thought back to his serious gaze; the quirk of his hard mouth. The gun in his hand.

“Who is Alex Rider?” she asked weakly.

Another thin-lipped smile. 

“I don’t suggest you want to find out, Ms. Marsh,” the man who wasn’t a bank manager said. “Your signature, if you will.”


	5. Bouverie Street Car Park

Friday morning did, at least, _start_ well for Kabir.

The deal that had dragged on for the last two months was finally signed at 2am. The clincher: a compromise on the jurisdiction clause, dreamed up by Kabir. He’d suggested it at midnight when breaking the deadlock between the parties seemed like a far fetched fantasy, but, miraculously, two hours later the whole thing was done and dusted; and Kabir’s managing partner was clapping him on the back (the first time that had _ever_ happened; James Mason was _not_ the clapping sort), promising him lunch with the firm’s newest clients, and telling him not to rush in the following day.

Which meant that Kabir had the first lie-in he’d had in _months._

Lie-ins were relative, of course, when you were a junior associate at a City law firm, but to be still sitting at his kitchen table in Fulham at 8:15am, trying to think up an inventive excuse to dodge dinner with his parents that evening, felt like an absolute luxury after eight weeks of 5am starts. He grinned to himself as he spooned cereal into his mouth, checking Instagram and Facebook for the first time in forever. 

That said, Instagram was bordering on depressing - loads of his friends seemed to be on holiday, and he supposed it _was_ February, when just about the whole of Britain was ready to bolt from the freezing damp weather, but it was particularly galling to be stuck in London whilst his mates frolicked on tropical beaches. Facebook was safer from the #humblebrag tag. Kabir didn’t post much on there - mostly because his mum had insisted on adding him as a friend a few years ago - but it was fun to see what other people were up to, even those he hardly ever (never) saw these days. People he’d known at uni, who were off doing interesting things with their lives (or, perish the thought, getting married). People he’d known at school, who were an even more disparate bunch and therefore a source of constant fascination.

Except when they tagged you in photos, he realised with a groan. According to his notifications, Grace Hummel had uploaded a photo two weeks ago, and there were a bunch of comments on it from people from school. He was almost afraid to click.

But when he did he found he wasn’t the only one who had been tagged: it was the Brooklands 2008 Year 11 picture. 

He blinked, and then found himself grinning again. They all looked so _young_ \- round and fresh faced, grinning at the camera. There was Grace in the front row, next to Rachel Plaid; they’d always been inseparable. Idly, Kabir clicked on Rachel’s name and found a lot of smug photos of her getting her medical degree. He made a face to himself, but dropped his spoon into the bowl of milk, preferring to use two hands to take advantage of this unique opportunity to satisfy his curiosity about a bunch of people he hadn’t given more than a fleeting thought to in years.

He clicked on their tags in turn. There were quite a lot of pictures of Josh Hersch and Ryan Kidd falling out of various pubs and taxis. Bethany Marsh seemed to have a _child_. He avoided Simon - who wasn’t tagged anyway, but Kabir recognised and had always been bad news. Tom Harris, who’d been on the football team with him, didn’t seem to spend much time with people from school, but seemed to be some sort of sports coach (playing what looked like semi-professional football at the weekends). Who’d he been friends with? Kabir and the others from the football team and - 

Kabir stopped, his thumb hovering over the face of the person to his left in the photograph. Tall, like Kabir, but blond hair and fair-skinned. Brown, serious eyes, not quite smiling but not scowling either as he stared into the camera lens.

_Alex._

Cripes, Kabir hadn’t thought about him in - what? _Nine years_ , he reminded himself somewhat ruefully. He’d dropped out of contact with most people from school and wasn’t bothered about it, but looking at the boy in the photograph, a funny sort of feeling settled in Kabir’s stomach. They’d had Chemistry together - and football, for a while. Good-looking, bright and good at sports, it had been really hard not to like Alex. Kabir hadn’t been alone in that - half the girls in their Chemistry class seemed to pay a lot more attention to Alex than to their bunsen burners. But it wasn’t just that. Alex had been one the few, genuinely good guys Kabir had ever known. He was the only one Kabir had felt comfortable inviting to his _dastaar bandi_ in Year 9, and one of the few of his classmates who hadn’t batted an eyelid when Kabir had started tying his full turban afterwards. 

Now Kabir couldn’t even remember his surname.

He frowned, and, still zoomed in, scrolled down to the bottom of the photograph where the names were listed. _Rider, A._

Of course it was Rider _._ How could he have forgotten?

But in his defence, he thought, they hadn’t really been _good_ friends for more than a decade - ever since Alex’s family member (had it been his uncle?) had died when they’d been fourteen. Shortly after Kabir’s _dastaar bandi_ , in fact. Alex had stopped coming to school quite so much - and when he did there’d been something distant about him: still friendly enough, but quieter. He’d been kicked off the football team. And he was often gone from home - Kabir knew, because when his family had found out about “that nice boy’s loss”, they’d gone round to Alex’s house with food and well wishes and found only the housekeeper.

Drugs, everybody said. Kabir had never believed it. Alex had never had much time for Simon Wheeler and that crowd.

He scrolled down further to see if Alex had commented on the photograph, but found he wasn’t even tagged. Maybe he wasn’t on Facebook.

Disappointment rose in Kabir before he pushed it to one side, slightly exasperated with himself. Why was he getting all morose over a guy he’d known half a life ago? 

This was the problem with Facebook, he reflected. It made you obsess over things that weren’t really worth obsessing over; made you waste hours stalking people you were probably never going to see again - 

_Shit_ , and he _had_ wasted a lot of time, he realised, eyes falling on the kitchen clock. It was 8.30. 

James Mason might not care, but maybe he’d better get moving all the same. He slurped the milk from the bowl - waste not, want not - grabbed his coat and satchel and headed for the door.

* * *

Driving across London wasn’t usually much of an issue at 6am. During rush hour, things were a little more slow going, and it took nearly an hour before Kabir finally pulled into Bouverie Street car park. 

And more annoyance: Kabir frowned when he reached the back of the garage to see his spot in the corner already taken. He swung into the space next to it instead, careful when he opened his door lest he scrape the paint of the Aston Martin that had seen fit to hide away in his preferred space. He was used to the flashy cars that frequented the area. His own dented Toyota Yaris stood out like a sore thumb. It was why he hid it at the back of the car park, far from the derisive looks of the law partners and diplomats. He would have thought the owner of an Aston Martin would have wanted to show off like everyone else. But, then, it wasn’t as if they had assigned spots in the garage; the owner could park where he wanted. No time to grouse about it now. Kabir reached into the backseat to grab his bag and the accordian file he’d left there, got out of the car and jogged across the car park.

By the time he was on the street he was already out of breath (that was the associate life for you; no time to exercise), and had to remind himself that he still had plenty of time to get to the office. Mason had said he could be late, and, besides, the partners didn’t get in until 10 anyway. He might get a few sidelong glances from the other associates, but that wasn’t anything new. He slowed down as he neared the Polish embassy, instead fiddling with the over-full file under his arm and trying to close it so nothing fell out. 

He was so busy looking down instead of watching where he was going that he ran smack into someone standing in the middle of the pavement.

He stumbled sideways, losing his balance. Almost automatically, it seemed, a hand shot out and caught him before he could fall into the gutter. But the file slipped from under his arm, crashing to the ground. Loose sheets of paper broke free, flying out into the road.

 _Shit._ Kabir lunged to gather them up, thankful that at least the road hadn’t been wet. The person he’d run into didn’t move to help, but Kabir didn’t particularly expect him to; he was dimly conscious of someone else standing nearby, and realised that he must have interrupted a conversation.

“Thanks,” he said as he stuffed the loose pages back into the file.

“No problem. You are okay, yes?” An Eastern European accent, Kabir noted, before he straightened up.

“Yes - thanks. Sorry, I should have - ” 

He stopped. He’d looked up to find himself staring into warm brown eyes, framed by a too-long blond fringe. A handsome face. Older and thinner than Kabir remembered, but undoubtedly familiar.

“ _Alex?_ ” he said. He let a smile tug at his lips, unable to believe the coincidence.

“ _Alexei_ ,” the man Kabir was sure was Alex Rider corrected with a frown. That same thick Slavic accent Kabir had heard before. Not Alex’s accent. 

Kabir hesitated, aware that the other person - a shorter, thicker-set man with dark hair and a leather jacket - was shifting his weight, but unable to dismiss the feeling that, despite the correction and the accent, the man he’d run into was definitely the same person he’d gone to school with. I mean, God, hadn’t he spent long enough staring at those eyes and freckles in Chemistry lessons?

“Alex,” he said again, slowly, wondering if he wasn’t going mad. “It’s me. Kabir?”

Something flashed in Alex’s face. Not recognition, but - fear, maybe? No; that didn’t make any sense. 

“Who’s this?” the other man asked. Eastern European too, but he spoke in English, maybe so that Kabir would understand, even though he directed the question at Alex. There was a touch of aggression in his tone, as if he didn’t much like Kabir being there. 

A short pause. Alex’s eyes surveyed Kabir. Then: “No one,” he said abruptly, turning away from Kabir in obvious dismissal. 

Kabir struggled not to gape. All right - maybe he’d paid a bit more attention to Alex at school than Alex had paid to him, but he’d thought they’d been friends. At least up until Alex’s uncle had died. Was Kabir really so forgettable? 

“Kabir,” he repeated, trying not to sound too injured. “We went to school together?”

“School?” the other man asked slowly. He was eying Kabir, eyes trailing up to his turban and then down to his shoes, taking him all in. Kabir shifted under the scrutiny, pulling his satchel in front of him. Then the man’s gaze snapped back to Alex. “I thought you went to school in Russia?”

“I did,” Alex said without hesitating. “This man’s mistaken. He has me confused with someone else.” His voice was flat; utterly certain. He didn’t turn around to look at Kabir again. He said something in a foreign language - something Kabir didn’t understand. An even more blatant dismissal.

The other man didn’t respond at once. He was obviously hesitating, looking between Alex and Kabir, as though something wasn’t quite adding up. Kabir didn’t blame him. He didn’t understand what was going on, either. He was conscious that he should be going - that even if he was convinced this _was_ Alex, Alex didn’t recognise him - but something was rooting him to the spot, refusing to let him tear his eyes away from the mop of blond hair in front of him.

The man said something in what sounded like the same language that Alex had spoken. Russian, maybe. Or Polish? Kabir didn’t get the words, of course, but he guessed it meant “hang on” or “two seconds”, because at the same time the other man pulled out his phone and began typing. Kabir’s gaze shifted back to Alex, noting the way his shoulders and spine seemed to have stiffened. He turned slowly on the spot, back to Kabir.

“You have somewhere to be?” he said pointedly, in accented English.

“I - ” Kabir wanted to argue. The whole thing felt bizarre. This was _Alex._ Wasn’t it? 

But the brown eyes fixed on him that had seemed warm before now looked cold. Bordering on threatening. 

Kabir took an involuntary step backwards. 

“Yes,” he stuttered out. “Yes - I - ”

“Goodbye, then,” said Alex - _Alex?_ \- firmly.

Kabir took another step backwards and fell down into the gutter, almost losing his balance again. The other man had put his phone away. Kabir didn’t wait to find out what happened next. He walked quickly away, clutching his file and satchel a little too tightly. He was halfway down the street before he realised he was going in the wrong direction. 

He chanced a glance over his shoulder. The two men had started walking too, up towards Fleet Street. Fine. Kabir would go the other way. Longer, but he didn’t want a repeat of _that_.

It had been...odd. No - more unsettling than that. The blond man hadn’t acted like someone who didn’t know him. He’d acted like someone who didn’t _want_ to know him. Kabir wasn’t sure which was worse. It had looked _exactly_ like Alex Rider. And “Alexei” was a bit too close to be a coincidence. But the accent? Had he studied abroad, or something? 

But if that was the explanation, why had he acted so weirdly?

Kabir was so preoccupied with what had happened that he didn’t think twice when he heard the rapid footfall of a jogger behind him, moving to the right without looking. But he felt someone suddenly, roughly, grab his upper arm, and before he could cry out - before he could do _anything -_ he found himself pushed sideways, into a narrow alley that led down to Temple. He was spun around and then shoved in the chest. The breath was slammed out of him as his back hit a brick wall. He found himself face to face with a man in a gaiter.

Not a jogger. If the gaiter hadn’t been obvious enough, the man was wearing jeans and a bomber jacket. A mugger?

“Take what you want, I don’t want problems,” Kabir said immediately. 

“How you know Oblonsky?” the man demanded. Kabir could barely understand him under the thick accent and harsh breathing. 

“What?”

The man’s other arm - the one that wasn’t pinning Kabir against the wall - leaned against Kabir’s throat. Kabir found his windpipe suddenly, painfully restricted. 

“ _Alexei_ ,” the man ground out. “How you know him?”

Know - _Alexei?_ The man Kabir had just thought was Alex? His head spun - and not just from the pressure on his throat.

“It was - a mistake,” he choked. “I thought I knew him.” 

“From where?” Bitten out. More pressure.

“I - _school_.” Kabir coughed. “Please - I - it was just a - mistake.”

“Who you think he is?”

Black pressed at the edges of Kabir’s vision. Dimly, he wondered if he wasn’t having some sort of nightmare. No one got this wound up about a mistaken identity. If it _was_ a mistaken identity. 

“Who?” the man demanded. His eyes flashed.

“Simon Wheeler,” Kabir found himself blurting out. And then wondered why he’d lied.

Except that this man was obviously dangerous. He looked like he was ready to kill Kabir. Mistake or not, Kabir wasn’t about to send him after Alex Rider.

But, as the man’s gaze narrowed, he wished he’d picked a different name. Why had he picked the dodgiest bloke in their class? What if this man was into drugs and he’d heard of Simon?

But there was no sign of recognition in the man’s eyes - the only bit of his face Kabir could see. Several long beats passed. Then, with one more shove against the wall, the man released him. 

“Go,” he said harshly. “You speak to no one. I will be watching.” 

Kabir didn’t wait to be told twice. He scrambled to grab his satchel from where he’d dropped it; somehow, incredibly, he’d hung on to the file even if it was a bit crushed. Legs weak, his neck still smarting, he shot out of the alley. He didn’t dare glance back - just legged it as fast as he could towards Fleet Street, only belatedly realising that he’d gone back the same way as the other men had gone. Thankfully they seemed long gone. He threw himself across the busy main road, narrowly avoiding being knocked over by a black cab, along the street, and then, at last, through the glass revolving doors of his firm’s building.

He stumbled as he fell into the lobby, catching himself only just in time. When he looked up it was to see the concerned gaze of Gloria, the receptionist, on him.

“Are you all right, love?” she asked. “You don’t half look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

 _Feels a lot like that too,_ Kabir thought. He was conscious that his hands were shaking; he tried to hide it by gripping the accordion file more tightly. 

“Fine,” he said. He wasn’t sure it sounded very convincing, but Gloria’s attention was distracted by the ringing of the phone next to her. With an apologetic glance in his direction, she lifted the receiver to her ear.

“Bickers and Hassle LLP.”

Kabir closed his eyes briefly, took a deep breath, and then, hoping his knees weren’t going to buckle out from underneath him, made his way to the lift.

Inside the elevator, he caught a glimpse of his reflection. He looked terrible - wide eyed with shock; haunted. He tried to slow his breathing, but it was difficult when his head was still spinning. Had that _really_ just happened? All of it - from the running into Alex, Alex not knowing him, and the man in the alley - seemed incredible. Why had the man _cared_ how he knew Alex, Alexei - _whatever_ his name was? _Had_ that even been Alex? 

He seemed to reach the fourth floor, where the corporate team worked, far too soon. He was still rattled as he made his way through the open plan desks, past the partners’ offices and the senior associates, and towards the junior associates’ corner. Two female associates, sitting on the end desks, were whispering together and eyed him as he went past. Kabir breathed through his nose, trying to school his face to look normal, but when he sat down at his desk the associate opposite him shot him an unmistakably dirty look. Not sympathy, or concern. Annoyance. Kabir could only blink, wondering what on earth was going on. His brain still felt scrambled after what had happened. 

Then he heard a loud voice behind him.

“So, Khatri! Big lunch with the partner, eh?”

Kabir didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. There were people like Jenny and Georgia, who bitched together in smirks and whispers; those like Oleg, who preferred dirty looks; and then there were the wankers like Jeffrey Cox. They were all, Kabir realised, pissed off about the same thing.

Would this morning never end?

“Yep,” he said, without turning around. He hauled the file back in front of him to show that he was busy. It somehow didn’t surprise him that Jeffrey had sought him out as soon as he’d sat down: he should have known Jeffrey - with his stupid Oxbridge degree and his simpering smile that all the partners fell for constantly - would be especially bitter about this one. He’d been the other associate on the deal but, for once, he wasn’t the one getting all the attention. Turned out a double Oxford first only got you so far.

“Someone said it’s for Manchester United.” Kabir could almost hear the curl of Jeffrey’s lip. 

“That’s right.”

“Brilliant news!” Jeffrey said loudly. “Just brilliant stuff. But try not to mistake a hundred for a hundred million this time, eh, old chap?”

Kabir’s face burned as loud titters echoed around the nearby desks. Why could no one forget anything in this place? He’d only messed up the price of _one_ development project - and, all right, it had actually ended up in the final version of the contract, and there’d been a whole dispute about it, but mistakes _did_ happen. He knew for a fact that Jeffrey had screwed up far more times and it was just his posh accent and smooth way of talking that meant he’d escaped any ridicule.

“I think the Man U contract’s more like half a billion,” he said, turning around. “So I don’t think I’m going to get confused, no.”

This provoked a resentful look from Jeffrey - but he was too slick to falter properly. In a second he was grinning again, moving to clap Kabir on the shoulder.

Kabir flinched backwards. It was instinctive - the fear and adrenaline from that morning still smothering him. But it was also unusual behaviour, and of _course_ Jeffrey noticed it at once. He actually laughed - _of course he bloody did,_ he couldn’t take anything seriously - and held up his hands.

“Blimey, Khatri,” he said. “Keep it together, yeah? Don’t freak out when Man U want to shake hands with you or something.”

If Kabir had been someone else, he might, there and then, have told Jeffrey to fuck the hell off, got hauled into the partner’s office, had his lunch cancelled, and made a bad day even worse. But Kabir hadn’t got to be an associate in a London law firm - which was full of posh and conceited blokes exactly like Jeffrey Cox who couldn’t even remember that, being a Sikh, Kabir didn’t do Ramadan or read the Qur’an, and couldn’t hide their smirks when he opted for the orange juice rather than the champagne - without the ability to stifle his temper and keep a grip on himself.

“Just leave me alone, Jeffrey,” he said. “I’ve got work to do. Haven’t you?”

Jeffrey’s smile was slightly fixed, but he did, thankfully, slope away.

Kabir turned back to his papers. Jeffrey was unpleasant, but having to deal with him - the way he always did - had, at least, given him some semblance of normality again. Now he was sitting at his desk, surrounded by stupid things like competition for the best deals, what had happened outside the Polish embassy and in the alley just felt like a bad dream. At the time, he’d been positive it had been Alex Rider he’d seen. But now he couldn’t even recall the man’s face properly. He was still tired from working until 2am - wasn’t it possible that he _had_ got it wrong? 

None of it made any sense otherwise. Right?

He sighed and opened up the file, groaning internally when he saw the mess it was in. This was going to take _hours._ If he was going to manage to get it done by his meeting that afternoon - with lunch as well - he was going to have to concentrate.

All thoughts of Alex Rider firmly pushed to one side, Kabir started sorting through the papers.

* * *

The lunch was...all right. At a steak restaurant - less than ideal, since Kabir was vegetarian - but the clients had been nice enough, and Mason had clearly been pleased enough with Kabir’s performance because he’d invited Kabir to join the brainstorming meeting on Monday. Which Kabir would have been thrilled about, had it not meant hours of preparation - hours he didn’t have, because he couldn’t for the life of him _get this file together._

There was stuff missing. He knew there was - file notes he remembered reading but now couldn’t find. In one way it wasn’t a massive deal - they had everything electronically; he could reprint. But losing confidential client papers was the surest route to being sacked and struck off by the Solicitors’ Regulation Authority, and, even when he’d somehow, miraculously, got a complete file in front of him half an hour before the meeting, there was an awful, churning feeling in his stomach that maybe he’d completely messed this one up. 

With a certain amount of wariness, he forced himself to think about what had happened in front of the Polish embassy. The papers had gone everywhere. Was it possible he’d lost some on the way?

Surely not. He was getting worked up unnecessarily. They were probably in his car. If he left for Lincoln’s Inn now, he could drop into the car park on the way and check. He threw on his coat and scooped up the file. 

If he walked a bit quicker down Bouverie Street than normal, he didn’t really think he could be blamed - even if, at half past three in the afternoon, the only people wandering up and down the street were obviously lawyers, carrying wigs and gowns or legal binders. But he felt a lot better when he got to the dim, concrete car park, slowing his walk as he weaved around the expensive cars, towards the back corner. Then the Yaris came into view and Kabir stopped where he was.

The silver Aston Martin was still there. And leaning against it, almost sitting on the bonnet, his legs stretched out in front of him, was a man with blond hair. The same man Kabir had run into outside the embassy. 

Kabir had talked himself into believing he’d made an error - that he must have been mistaken. Even now, the man’s head was bent over a mobile, and it was difficult to be sure. But he suddenly looked up, as if in thought, and Kabir got a clear view of his face. And he was absolutely, indisputably sure that he was looking at Alex Rider. 

He didn’t look quite the same as earlier. There was a gash above his eyebrow that was crusted with dried blood, and a reddish mark on his cheek, as if someone might have hit him. But, otherwise, leaning up against his ridiculously expensive car in a grey tailored coat, he looked like any other of the posh, entitled wankers Kabir had to deal with on a daily basis that wouldn’t have thought twice about dismissing him just as Alex had done that morning. 

Standing there, Kabir felt a wave of anger crash over him. Where did Alex Rider think he got off, treating others like dirt and letting his friends - even former friends - be beaten up in alleys?

Before he’d really considered what he was doing, Kabir was striding over. Alex glanced up as he threw his file on the Yaris’s bonnet. Kabir didn’t think he imagined the flash of recognition under the surprise in Alex’s expression.

“What the hell?” he demanded. 

There was a second’s pause before Alex answered. He looked wary. “What do you mean?”

His accent, Kabir noticed, was back to being English, and for some reason that aggravated him nearly as much as Alex feigning ignorance about the whole thing.

“Are you serious?” he spluttered. “All of it - the pretending not to know me; calling yourself _Alexei_ ; changing your accent - and then some guy threw me into an alley and demanded to know how I knew you and - ”

“They did _what?_ ” Alex interrupted, straightening up. Kabir felt only marginally mollified by the alarm in his expression.

“Some guy followed me,” he said slowly. “Threw me up against a wall and wanted to know how we knew each other - ”

“Oh God.” Alex raised his eyes to the ceiling, before running a hand down his face, breathing out a sort of incredulous laugh, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “Right. And you told them my name, did you?”

“I - no,” said Kabir, feeling a bit irritated again that Alex seemed a bit more preoccupied by what Kabir had said to his attacker rather than the fact he’d been attacked in the first place. “I said I must’ve made a mistake. That I thought you were...Simon Wheeler.”

Alex stared. “What?”

“It - just came out.” It sounded stupid now he was saying it out loud, but Alex didn’t look like he thought Kabir was mad. 

“And they bought it?”

“I think so.” Kabir didn’t even care at this stage. None of this was making sense - from Alex’s fake accent to his questions now. “Just tell me what’s going on. What’s this all about?”

His voice came out sharp. Something in Alex’s face seemed to close off. 

“I can’t tell you,” he said. Voice quiet. Maybe even something regretful in it, but Kabir felt a burst of impatience.

“What do you mean, you can’t tell me?” It came out louder than he’d intended but he didn’t lower his voice. “They - they _threatened_ me! They were _choking_ me. And you can’t even tell me why?”

“I’m sorry.”

Kabir opened his mouth again, but something in the tone of the words caught him off guard. They hadn’t been said with a shrug, or with the air of brushing the issue aside. It had been a genuine apology - whether for what had happened or for the lack of explanation, Kabir wasn’t sure, but some of his anger seemed to dissipate. 

He searched Alex’s face, looking for some hint of insincerity. The more he looked, the more worn and drawn he realised Alex looked. His face was pinched, the cut above his eye and the mark on his cheek standing out starkly against his too-pale skin. Tense lines bracketed his lips and eyes, somehow suggestive of more than just a bad day. Whatever Alex was caught up in - whatever Kabir had stumbled into - it was putting him under strain. 

“I’m just - I’m really sorry,” Alex repeated. His voice was hoarse this time. His mouth tightened; he was looking at Kabir like he wouldn’t have been that surprised if Kabir wanted to hit him. Like he wouldn’t have put up a fight if he had. Kabir felt a stir of trepidation, sapping the last vestiges of anger, as he landed on the realisation that something was badly wrong.

“Are you...OK?” he asked. 

He thought he sounded like an idiot again, but Alex didn’t laugh. He opened his mouth and then closed it again. Kabir felt his apprehension rising.

“I’m fine,” Alex said at last. “Thanks.” He gave Kabir a thin smile. It didn’t reach his eyes.

Kabir hesitated. Debated whether to press. He and Alex might’ve had a connection in the past, but they didn’t really know one another anymore. And if Kabir had been sane, he wouldn’t have _wanted_ to know Alex, if this was the sort of stuff he got involved in. But this was _Alex_. The same person who’d stood up to the school bullies. Who’d shown the class how to get their bunsen burner to turn green. Who’d asked Kabir to help him tie his pakta for Kabir’s _dastaar bandi._

“Can I - ” Kabir started, and then stopped. Could he what? Patch up Alex’s cut? Offer him a drink so they could talk this out? None of it felt like enough. Or like the sort of thing Alex might accept. “Is there...someone I can call for you?” he asked instead.

That got a flash of a half smile: barely there but _something_. It brought a little life back to Alex’s exhausted expression. “I already - ” 

He cut himself off abruptly, head suddenly snapping away, towards the entrance of the car park. Kabir turned around and saw a woman in a pressed brown suit and flat shoes hurrying towards them. She looked stressed. 

“Veronica,” Alex said when she reached them. Kabir glanced at him, noting that he’d straightened up. He suddenly looked more together, less fragile; but there was a sharp tension in his shoulders and neck that told Kabir he’d merely buried it somewhere else.

“Are you all right?” the woman - Veronica - asked. Seemed to look over Alex with some concern. Kabir felt a flicker of - _something_ ; but the woman looked older than either of them - in her forties, at least. She touched Alex’s shoulder gently before her eyes landed on Kabir. Her expression went from anxious to cool in an instant. 

“Who’s this?”

Not the first time Alex had been asked that today, Kabir reflected grimly, and wondered if Alex was about to trot out more lies.

“The guy who I ran into earlier,” Alex supplied. “From school.” 

“I see.” Positively cold. Almost as if she - blamed him? No, he had to be imagining it. Kabir hadn’t done anything to her. “Do we need to have a discussion with him?” She kept her eyes on Kabir, though it was obvious she was talking to Alex. 

Kabir wasn’t sure what she meant, but from the way Alex tensed it couldn’t be anything good. Unease crept into his stomach. He found himself wondering, again, what Alex was involved in.

“No.” It was said firmly - almost in challenge. Veronica didn’t appear surprised.

“All right, then.” She turned back to Alex. “Crawley’s arranging things. Let’s get in the car and I’ll brief you.”

Alex’s shoulders slumped, but he peeled himself off the hood of the car. Glanced at Kabir, who hesitated. It was obvious that a goodbye was coming, but should he ask for a mobile number? An address, to get in touch?

“Sorry again,” Alex said. “See you around.”

He said it with a finality that implied he wouldn’t. Kabir blinked.

“Yeah - it was - good seeing you?” Maybe it wasn’t surprising it came out as a question. 

“Come on,” Veronica chided, nudging Alex’s arm. 

Alex didn’t look at Kabir again. He went around the car, climbing into the driver’s seat. Veronica got into the passenger side. Kabir heard a snatch of conversation - “ - suspicious so you’ll have to end it, I’m afraid - ” before the doors were closed and there was only silence.

Kabir watched them talking in the front of the car for a few seconds - Veronica twisted in her seat so that she was facing Alex; Alex running a hand down his face and dropping it onto the steering wheel as he nodded with an expression akin to resignation. Then his eyes shifted, towards Kabir, who realised that he was staring. He turned abruptly away, glancing down at his watch. 

_Shit._ He only had ten minutes to get to Lincoln’s Inn. And he hadn’t even looked for the stupid papers. He’d have to do it later. He scooped up the file from the bonnet of his car and, pushing the thought of Alex Rider to one side once again - with a bit more difficulty this time - hurried out of the car park.

* * *

He was late. Luckily the barrister was later.

And inept, as it turned out. Kabir suffered through an hour and a half of tax advice that was so obviously wrong it was painful before he finally left Lincoln’s Inn at five o’clock, head spinning once more, wondering if he might possibly get away with going home early. What had started out as a semi-promising day seemed to have left him completely and utterly shattered. The whole thing felt slightly surreal, like time had warped: seeing Alex in the car park still felt fresh and raw, as if it had happened five minutes previously, but lunch seemed like a week ago; breakfast, a year or more.

Maybe he just needed to eat something, he thought dimly. He hadn’t had much at lunch, and it would account for the headache he had. 

He cut down Chancery Lane, figuring he’d be able to pick something up along Fleet Street. He turned the corner onto the main road, checking his emails as he went, shooting off a few replies, registering, with a sigh, that the dream of leaving early was almost certainly going to be abandoned: it looked like he’d be working all weekend too. The lie-in he’d had suddenly didn’t seem worth it.

“Oh - sir. You can’t come through here.”

Kabir glanced up. He’d been so focused on his phone he hadn’t noticed what should have been obvious - a whole section of Fleet Street that had been cordoned off with police tape. The reason why was immediately clear.

There had been a terrible accident - a huge traffic collision involving a bus and half a dozen cars. The bus seemed to have ploughed straight into a traffic light island; one of the cars had torn into the bus; the others had run into one another, sitting at all the wrong angles across the road. There were a lot of police cars around the perimeter, lights flashing. Three ambulances were parked on the other side of the accident. The heavy scent of petrol hung in the air. And…

Kabir’s stomach churned as he registered the long white bag sitting alongside the bus. A body bag.

It had to have come from the car. If you could have called it a car anymore. It seemed to have crunched straight into the bus. The whole passenger side was half torn away. The rest of the bonnet was crinkled and peeled up like a tin can; the windscreen half-shattered and forced out at an awkward angle by the collapsed roof. There was an unmistakable mist of red against the splintered glass that was partially hidden under the sheet draped across to hide what he imagined was the worst of the carnage.

The car had been expensive, he registered numbly - with that odd detachment that always accompanies shock. It was the tyres that gave it away - he’d seen enough of the sort in Bouverie Street car park. Almost automatically, he gave the car another once over, taking in the silver colour and the Aston Martin logo on the scrunched up bonnet.

Something in Kabir went very cold. 

No. _Oh no._

His stomach lurched. He thought he was about to throw up. Desperately, he looked around, searching for a flash of blond hair; a grey tailored coat - 

\- and came up with nothing.

Shit. Oh shit. _Alex -_

Kabir closed his eyes. Found himself saying a silent prayer. 

Why had he gone to that stupid meeting? Why hadn’t he hung around - stopped Alex from getting into the car?

He remembered how ill and tired Alex had looked. Almost pained. Kabir had the awful, devastating thought that maybe he’d done this on purpose.

Abruptly, he opened his eyes and turned away - away from the terrible white bag lying on the ground - and found himself looking at a woman across the street. 

It was Veronica, in her pressed brown pencil skirt, face deceptively blank as she surveyed the wreckage. He saw the flash of a bluetooth headset in her ear and he saw her lips move. She hadn’t seen him.

Even through his shock, Kabir realised that she looked so well put together and separate from it all there was no way she’d been in the crash. Dimly, he registered that although she’d been concerned about Alex earlier, she didn’t look all that upset. Her words as they’d got into the car rang through his head. “ _You’ll have to end it, I’m afraid - ”_

Oh God. Maybe this _had_ been on purpose. And Veronica... 

She couldn’t have. Could she?

“Sir?” 

The police officer was still in front of him. Her lips were pursed - obviously wanting him to leave the area, or at the very least join the other onlookers a safe distance away.

“I’m sorry, I - ” Kabir’s eyes trailed over to Veronica again, and then back to the white bag in the street. “I…knew him.” 

The officer didn’t seem fazed in the least. “I’m sorry for your loss, sir.” Although it sounded professional enough, there was an air of disbelief in her expression. “But if you do not step away from the line you will have to be escorted.”

The words didn’t really register; it was the buzz of the phone in Kabir’s hand, more than anything, that woke him up. Blinking, he stepped backwards, glancing down at it.

His mum. Asking again if he might be able to make dinner. 

Eating was the last thing he felt like doing. His fingers hovered over the keys, poised to refuse - again. But could he really be alone, after this? 

_I’ll be there,_ he found himself typing. He stared down at the screen after he’d sent it. It would be good to talk to his family; they’d want to help once the details came out, even if he didn’t tell them about everything else that had happened - and, honestly, he wasn’t sure he could bring himself to. 

He glanced up again - at the white bag, lying alone. Watched as two paramedics wheeled over a gurney and lowered it down, before heaving the white bag onto it.

Unbidden, a long-forgotten memory popped into Kabir’s head - a blond teenager, warm brown eyes crinkled in amusement as his friend’s experiment bubbled over on a chemistry workbench. “Nothing we can’t fix,” said with a mischievous air.

Kabir blinked and the image was gone. 

He took one last longing look at the bag. Then he turned around to head home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Veronica' was inspired by Veronica Price, the pseudonym of the deputy head of the P5 division of MI6 used in Ben Macintyre's 'The Spy and the Traitor' (although, for timeline reasons, is not intended to be the same person).


	6. Reunion Hotel, Twickenham (Part I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got too long, so we had to split it into two chapters. Part II to come....

Alex always left his personal mobile at home when he was working. 

It wasn’t protocol, exactly, but it seemed like good practice. It wasn’t like he couldn’t contact anyone - MI6’s tech team issued him with their own approved phone model that did a lot more than the standard iPhone did - and the risks were a lot lower if he got caught or if his phone fell into the wrong hands. His work phone didn’t have any numbers saved; it was devoid of personal information; and it also had a handy tracker he could activate if he was in trouble.

He didn’t make a habit of giving out the number for obvious reasons, but it had made sense, he thought, to give it to Tom, given that they lived together and Alex was away so often.

Lately, he’d really been starting to regret it.

_r u coming?_

Alex might not have had Tom saved as a contact, but when the text came through at seven o’clock on a Friday evening, he recognised the number - and the style - immediately. Not that that helped. Given that he had zero plans with Tom that evening, having been strong-armed into a short-notice operation, and given also that Tom had generally had plans with someone _else_ every Friday for the last four months or so, the message made no sense whatsoever. But maybe, in light of the fact that Tom managed to text him by mistake at least one Friday in every two, Alex should have expected this.

Honestly, Alex was probably one erroneous tap away from receiving a picture message he really _didn’t_ want to. 

_Not Allison_ , he texted back. _For the last time_. 

He glanced up in time to give his empty champagne glass - discretely upturned into a nearby yucca plant about ten minutes ago - to a passing waiter. He took a fresh glass from the tray. He wouldn’t drink that one either, but since every other person in the room was downing champagne like water, it wouldn’t do to be seen empty handed. 

His phone buzzed again in his hand.

_i no?? wen r u getting here?_

Despite the attention he really should have been focusing elsewhere at that moment, Alex found himself pausing for a second, mystified. As he’d explained to Tom quite a few times, his work phone was for emergencies only. Had he missed something? Was Tom in A&E? Or had the house finally burned down - a never-ending risk given Tom’s talents - or lack thereof - with the microwave?

 _ive been here 4 lyk an hr already,_ said Tom’s next text. 

That was a no. 

An appointment Alex had forgotten about, then. Social plans, he remembered with a small internal groan. Plans he’d never _actually_ agreed to, as far as he remembered. Tom had been banging on about them for weeks, and Alex, as he mostly did whenever Tom’s chatter involved a suggestion he might socialise outside of work, had tuned them out. Something about getting a few mates together for the weekend. Alex couldn’t imagine anything worse.

 _Busy tonight,_ he messaged back, and, before he could get embroiled in a discussion about _what_ , exactly, he was busy with, he tucked his phone into the inside pocket of his dinner jacket. He could feel it buzzing with more messages but he ignored them, instead focusing his attention on the room again.

The Reunion Hotel in Twickenham held itself out as a spa retreat but truthfully it was more conference centre than luxury hotel. It had five hundred bedrooms, but they were nearly always filled by people attending meetings or parties in the large conference rooms on the ground floor, one of which Alex was now standing in. The Reunion had three such conference rooms, all of which could host hundreds of people if the need arose. Its claim to fame was having once hosted a meeting of the G8 (shortly before the G8 had become the G7, but everyone agreed it wasn’t the hotel that had driven the Russians off), but these days it usually played host to less notable events.

That Friday, it was hosting (as it often did) several events, one of which happened to be the Eastern European Fellowship on Natural Gas Conference. But the presentation part of the conference was long finished: it was the evening soirée now - the chairs that had been lined up earlier dragged to its edges, and the room now full of people in black tie. 

In his own dinner jacket, Alex blended right in. Officially he was Alexei Rivkin, the owner of a small Russian energy company looking to expand business in the UK. Rich enough to pass as another fracking hopeful; unimportant enough not to merit anyone talking to him. The perfect cover.

He did wish Mrs Jones would stop assigning him the name Alexei as a cover identity, though. 

“Alexei died six months ago,” he’d said earlier that week, when he’d been handed the briefing pack. “Tragic accident on Fleet Street. Involving a bus. Ring any bells?”

“Alexei _Oblonsky_ died,” Mrs Jones had responded, a little bristly. She was obviously still touchy about the way that operation had imploded. Alex thought that was a bit much. _She_ wasn’t the one who’d spent months under pressure trying to keep cover, only to have it blown by a chance meeting, and then receive nothing but a bollocking afterwards. To have to pretend to be another Alexei - so close, so soon - reeked of punishment. “It’s protocol for cover names to be close if possible,” Mrs Jones had continued, her tone clipped. “And Alexei is a very common Russian name. In a room full of Eastern Europeans you’ll fit in.”

So that was that. Alex was Alexei - again. At least it was only for the afternoon and evening. After that the job would be done and Alexei Rivkin could disappear.

Assuming Nick - or, rather, Nikolai for present purposes - did his job properly.

Alex’s gaze paused on a man in his early twenties, standing some distance away. In a black bow tie, holding a glass of champagne, he too looked like everyone else there.

If you ignored the incessant tap of his fingers against his glass, that was.

“Calm down; you look too nervous,” Alex murmured. 

He made sure not to move his lips too much, but it hardly mattered; as soon as he spoke, Nick’s gaze darted in his direction from across the room. Alex turned away abruptly.

“Stop looking at me. _And_ at Zolchevsky. His security detail’s bound to notice.”

The security detail was the main worry. The distinctive-looking man at the bar - head covered with thick, shockingly white hair even though he was only in his late forties - had brought no fewer than four bodyguards with him, by Alex’s count. According to MI6’s intelligence, Roman Zolchevsky (a man suspected of holding far too much influence over the current Leader of the Labour Party) favoured Spetsnaz soldiers, and this lot looked it, from their heavy-set builds to the way they’d tactically spaced themselves: one near Zolchevsky at the bar; the others spread out around the room. 

“I’m trying to look for an opening,” came the muttered response in Alex’s ear. 

“That’s my job,” Alex said - perhaps a little more sharply than he needed to. But, honestly, they’d _discussed_ this. Nick had agreed he’d keep his head down and follow Alex’s instructions.

Not for the first time, Alex wished he was on this operation alone.

It wasn’t that he didn’t _like_ Nick. He might be fresh out of Oxford and still a bit carried away by his tap on the shoulder, but everyone had to start somewhere and Alex had met far more arrogant idiots in his time. But even after their first meeting, Alex had been able to tell that Nick wasn’t really cut out for field work. He was too academic. Having an air of that was fine - a useful way to get people to write you off as unthreatening - but Alex had seen that Nick found it difficult to think his way around problems as they’d gone through the things that could go wrong. 

He’d also been very, very anxious about his first field operation.

Alex had gone straight to the case officer. Argued hard that it was a straightforward operation; he didn’t need a junior agent. But he’d been overruled. For lots of reasons, but primary of them being that this was a joint operation between MI6 and MI5 and both wanted in. MI6 had won the argument of who got the senior agent; MI5 won on the question of who was going to be responsible for swiping Zolchevsky’s laptop and providing the back up.

“But - aren’t we running out of time?” came Nick’s hesitant voice.

“We’ve got hours until this thing finishes. Now _stop talking_. You’ll draw attention to yourself.”

The earpiece went silent. Alex waited a few seconds before turning around again, pretending to take a sip from his glass as he surveyed the room once more, trying to throw off the sense of anxiety rising in his chest.

The trouble was, Nick had a point. They’d been there for eight hours, and Zolchevsky hadn’t let the laptop out of his sight since they’d arrived. Even now, as he stood at the bar, smiling thinly at one of his companions - another Ukranian tycoon, Alex had already clocked - he had the stiff leather briefcase slung over his shoulder by the strap. Snatching the laptop seemed impossible - and yet they had to do it before he departed. Once Zolchevsky left the hotel - that was it. They wouldn’t get another chance. That had been impressed upon Alex with considerable emphasis.

There was a contingency plan. Involving Alex acting as a distraction. But it was risky. If the Spetsnaz soldiers were worth their salt they’d be onto them at once. They might blow their cover _and_ lose the laptop. 

Strictly a last resort.

Alex’s call as to when it was required.

He clenched his jaw, debating. Somehow, things were way less stressful when there was only one of you to take care of. 

Almost unable to help himself, his gaze slid back to Nick, noting the large balding man ambling over towards his junior agent. Alex had seen him making his circuit around the room - a networker. A nice way to make Nick seem like he belonged but given Nick’s nervousness it was probably just an unwelcome distraction. Reluctantly, Alex pulled himself from the wall, setting a course to intercept, trying to place the face in his mind.

David Gideon. He had been one of the wild cards on the guest list - a British renewable energy champion in a room full of Eastern European natural gas magnates. MI5 would probably have something to say about that, but Alex’s only aim now was to divert him from Nick. 

He cut straight into Gideon’s path; they collided. Gideon’s weight was enough to knock the breath from Alex; it wasn’t entirely deliberate that his champagne jerked from his hand, straight over the man’s dress shirt.

“Sorry,” Alex said, not sounding very sorry at all. But Gideon’s face brightened, evidently sensing another networking opportunity. Alex ignored him, putting his champagne flute down on another waiter’s tray and taking his next glass, seizing the opportunity to glance over at the bar.

Shit _._ Zolchevsky had put down the laptop.

He was still talking to the other Ukranian, but in the seconds Alex had been on the move, he had slipped the briefcase off his shoulder, placing it on the floor, against the bar. And he wasn’t watching it. Nor was the bodyguard next to him. 

A quick glance at the other Spetsnaz cronies confirmed the same was true of them.

It might be the best chance they had.

“We’ve got an opening,” he muttered, moving away from Gideon before he could be embroiled in a discussion. “Ready?”

“Yeah.” Nick’s tone suggested the opposite.

“Be careful.”

Alex knew there was a certain amount of irony in that coming from _him_ \- who’d been regularly rapped over the knuckles by his case officers for taking too many risks - but he had a feeling Nick needed the reminder. 

Sure enough, when Nick broke from the small crowd of people he’d been in and started to make his way to the bar, it was at about double the speed of what would have been considered normal.

" _Slow down_ ,” Alex hissed, not missing the way one of the bodyguards - _Muscles_ , for lack of a better name, was watching Nick and frowning.

Nick halted where he was. 

“Don’t _stop_ ,” Alex said, as Muscles’s frown deepened. “Just walk. A nice, unsuspicious pace.” Why was this so difficult? Alex’s gaze slid back to Muscles, who was still watching Nick as he approached the bar. 

Not good. Nick had drawn too much attention to himself. 

_Bollocks._ What to do? If Alex ordered him to withdraw, it would look even more suspicious; Nick would never get close again. Going up to the bar more than once in half an hour would look just as bad - so if they didn’t perform the switch now, they’d just cut down on their already not-so-fulsome time to do it.

He had to distract Muscles.

“Order a drink first,” Alex muttered, already on the move as he made up his mind. “You’ve got interest. I’ll deal with it, but you’ll have to watch the others.” He was moving nearly as quickly as Nick had, but, all the same, he didn’t capture Muscles’s attention until he was nearly on top of him. By that time Alex was already beaming, a hand reaching out to clap the bodyguard on the shoulder.

“ _I think we know each other, yes?_ ” Alex said in Russian. His accent was flawless; he had been drilled for weeks before he’d ever been allowed out on an operation with it. 

Muscles eyed him. He was frowning again, but not with suspicion. Puzzlement. “ _I_ _don’t believe so_.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Alex insisted. He didn’t dare glance past Muscles towards the bar. “ _Moscow. The Higher Military Command School. I think we were there at the same time?_ ”

Probably a bit of a stretch - the man was definitely at least half a dozen years older than Alex, even if Alex had got the right academy. He got another frown. Alex didn’t really care, so long as the attention was off Nick.

“ _I’m sorry,_ ” the man said at last. “ _What was your name?_ ”

“ _Alexei Rivkin,_ ” Alex supplied. 

Muscles shook his head. “ _No. I do not remember Alexei Rivkin. You must be mistaken._ ”

And before Alex could persuade him otherwise, he had turned to look back at the bar. Right at Nick. Who had set down his own case - a perfect match to Zolchevsky’s, of course; MI5 had seen to that - and was midway picking up Zolchevsky’s. It was impossible to tell which was which. Alex might be rigid with tension, but they might, just about, get away with it even though Muscles was staring right at him.

Then Nick picked up his drink and turned around. And Alex internally swore.

He’d ordered a cider. Strongbow, specifically. In a room full of Eastern Europeans drinking champagne and vodka.

Was it Alex’s imagination that Muscles’s shoulders seem to tense? His gaze trailed to the other bodyguards near the bar. Thankfully they didn’t seem to have eyes on the young MI5 agent walking away from Zolchevsky. But Muscles wasn’t looking anywhere else.

Alex’s earpiece crackled.

He watched the small smile on Nick’s lips as they moved.

So did Muscles.

“Exchange confirmed.”

Even if Muscles didn’t understand what was being said, he couldn’t have missed the fact Nick was speaking to no one. Alex saw his fingers move to his earpiece, his gaze still tracking Nick across the room as he murmured something in Russian. Alex, forgotten, backed rapidly away.

Fuck. _Fuck._

“Get out,” Alex hissed into his earpiece. “ _Now._ They’re already on to you.” The only small mercy was that Nick was halfway to the exit, and none of the bodyguards had yet moved. But there was a palpable tension amongst all four of them Alex really, _really_ didn’t like. 

“What do I do?” All sense of achievement had definitely gone from Nick’s voice. A thread of nervousness had replaced it. But he was still moving towards the doors.

Alex knew Muscles was about to head that way before he did, his broad chest turning in that direction, his hand still at his ear. 

Time to ditch any but the barest semblance of a pretence, then. 

Alex dropped his champagne glass on the nearest table and pulled out his phone again, holding it up to his ear as if he’d received a call, already pivoting towards the exit himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see one of the other bodyguards moving towards the door in time with Muscles.

There was absolutely no way they were going to make it to the MI5 car outside. Not without a high risk of being caught.

Not unless Alex did something.

“As soon as you clear the doors, get the laptop out. Tuck it behind your back; close the case.” Alex was weaving between the minglers, trying not to look too hard at Muscles or, as Alex had mentally dubbed the other one, Glasses. He saw Nick slip out of the doors ahead of him. 

Getting the laptop out and away was the priority. If they got caught, they wouldn’t have another opportunity - Zolchevsky would bolt.

“Should I run?” Nick’s voice was several notches higher than usual. Alex imagined him in the lobby, backing away from the conference room.

“No,” Alex told him, trying to sound as calm as possible lest Nick have a complete meltdown. “I’m headed for the door; hand the briefcase off to me. Make it obvious.” 

“And then what?” Definitely scared.

“Run and get to the car.” Alex cleared a group to see Glasses and Muscles almost the same distance from the door as he was.

“What about you?”

“I’ll draw them away,” Alex said grimly, lengthening his stride to outpace the men pushing through the crowd. “Status?”

“Lobby clear. Laptop out, waiting for you.”

“Good. Get ready; exchange in 5…” Alex made his final cut to the doors, sliding a few metres in front of Muscles and Glasses. Not enough. He needed more. 

“4…” A shove into one of the men grouped near the door; Alex spun him to block the way. 

“3 - ” He slipped through the double doors and closed them behind him. His gaze found Nick immediately, standing maybe ten metres away. He looked paralysed with fear.

“2 - ” 

Nick saw him; started moving towards him, just as the double doors of the conference room flew open again.

Change of plan. Alex shot forward; snatched the briefcase from Nick’s hands. Nick’s mouth fell open. 

Good - that’d sell it.

“ _Run,_ ” Alex hissed.

Nick didn’t need telling twice. He shot off like a bullet toward the south lobby, straight towards the car park at the front of the hotel. Alex turned; caught sight of Muscles and Glasses, who were staring at the laptop bag in his hand. 

They hadn’t gone straight after Nick but now Alex was on his own. And he needed to draw them away.

He broke into a run, hurtling towards the north side of the hotel. Towards the other conference rooms and service corridors. 

He dodged past a waitress carrying a tray of champagne flutes, and then ploughed through a group of people who must have come from one of the other conferences, carrying their own laptop cases.

He clocked the door they’d come from and ducked in that direction, darting into the room. Frowns were shot his way as he weaved his way through the crowd, but he ignored them, glancing over his shoulder instead as he reached the middle of the room. Glasses and Muscles were still onto him, but they were further behind than he’d thought, the crowd slowing them down. Anywhere else they might’ve pulled a gun, but not here. Which meant Alex just had to stay ahead.

But the crowd was getting thicker; he got caught around a large group clustered between several tables. He tried to muscle through them but a hand caught on his shoulder. He spun out from under it with a curse but lost his balance, knocking into one of the bar top tables, bringing it and him to the floor as the spindly legs tripped him. 

He looked up at his attacker and found himself staring at Zolchevsky. Where the hell had he come from?

 _Keeps himself fit,_ the MI5 report had said. They hadn’t been kidding.

Zolchevsky lunged for the briefcase still in Alex’s hand. Alex swung it straight up, clubbing Zolchesvky squarely across the face. The man let out a howl, his hands flying up to his nose as he stumbled backwards.

It was only then that Alex realised how quiet the room had gone. All eyes seemed to have turned to the source of the noise, the nearest group staring with slack-jawed expressions.

Well - hopefully they’d be too stunned to try and step in. 

Alex scrambled to his feet, and nearly crashed straight into Muscles and Glasses. Without hesitating, he lurched towards the nearest table, throwing it sideways at them, and took off again towards the service door at the top of the hall.

“Status?” he bit out, shoving through a group of onlookers that scattered to move out of his way.

“Just got to the car,” Nick panted in his ear. “Already copying the drive. We’re leaving. Where’re you?”

“Running. Send the other car to the north entrance. Get them to call me when they’re here.” 

“Got it. Er - good luck?”

Alex hit the door; it banged open and there was a shriek as one of the waitresses caught the edge of it. Alex nearly fell through into a small, dimly lit lobby. Service corridor to his left - lots of moving bodies; but he’d have to trust he could outrun Zolchevsky and his henchmen with nowhere else to hide. Bad idea. He opted instead for the set of swinging double doors ahead, swerving at the last second to avoid a trolley of drinks and hors d'oeuvres being pushed out. Champagne flutes fell in a clatter of plastic as Alex swore in time with the waiter he had just bowled over. He didn’t hang around; throwing himself instead through the doors the waiter had just emerged from.

As he’d suspected, it was the kitchen. It was huge - had to be servicing all three conference rooms at once. Alex ducked between waiters and chefs, his dress shoes slipping on the tiled floor, his dinner jacket flapping behind him, drawing stares. But no one challenged him - either they were too shocked to, or Alex was moving too fast to stop. He shoved past prep cooks, ignoring calls of “clear” as ovens were opened in front of him and hot trays pulled, ducking only just in time. 

Behind him came the distinct sound of clattering and shouts of “You can’t be in here!” Presumably his friends had joined him. Lovely. 

Alex kept pushing through, determined not to let them catch up.

The call came into his earpiece as he was ducking under yet another serving platter being moved. He swore as he caught his head on the edge of it. It tumbled to the floor to yet another set of shouted curses as Alex shot away.

“ETA?” he asked as he tapped the earpiece to accept, desperately hoping it was good news.

"Will you _stop_ ignoring my messages, you arse?"

Not MI5. _Tom._

_Fucking hell._

“This is supposed to be for _emergencies_ ,” Alex said, skidding around a corner into another cooking zone.

“It _is_ an emergency - ” 

Alex lost the next bit of whatever Tom said as he neared the fat fryers, his feet suddenly coming out from underneath him as they slid on the grease slicked floor. He caught himself with a hand on the metal worktop, risking a glance back.

No sign of Zolchevsky. Glasses was further back, but Muscles was close. Too close. His face was contorted into a snarl.

Without really thinking about it, Alex grabbed the handle of one of the baskets sitting in the bubbling vats. Ducking backwards, he threw it in Muscles’s direction, covering his face from the spraying hot oil. 

The curses in Russian from behind him told him he had hit his mark, but Alex didn’t hang around to confirm it.

“Now’s really not a good time,” he said as he hurtled forwards. “What’s the emergency?”

A huff, as if Alex should have been listening the first time. “Your social life.”

“My - ” Alex’s feet slipped again; he ended up skidding forwards, narrowly avoiding being impaled by a chef with a knife - only managing to slip past at the last second. “Are you _kidding_ me?” 

“I don’t joke about these things, mate. Are you coming or not?”

“Coming wh - ” Oh. The bloody _weekend away_ . He couldn’t deal with this now. He reached up a hand to end the call - but as he did so, a hand grabbed a fistful of the back of his suit, tugging him back. _Shit._ Alex’s hand shot out, snatching a paring knife from the nearby counter with his free hand and jabbing it blindly behind him. The heavy drag of flesh told him he’d hit home long before the howl of pain. He released the blade, sparing a glance back to see Glasses hunched over. He was holding his side, but there were no great bursts of blood. He’d live, Alex decided, and then took off again.

“You were supposed to be here _an hour ago_ ,” Tom said in his ear. Either he couldn’t hear what was going on at Alex’s end or he wasn’t worried about it.

“I’m working,” Alex returned, breaking into a full out run as he saw the exit ahead. 

“You’re _always_ working - ”

“ _And_ I never promised to be anywhere - ” Alex crashed through the double doors, finding himself in another service corridor. He halted, looking right and left. 

“The invitation’s been on the fridge for _ages_ \- ”

“Well, I’ve got other plans,” Alex bit out, deciding left was better, and taking off again. He didn’t hear anyone behind him, but it was difficult to tell with Tom huffing in his ear again.

“It’s all weekend. So unless you’re working through til Monday - ” 

Alex ended the call before Tom could argue any further. He’d apologise later. He threw another look backwards, and saw that he was alone; no one was following him. He ducked around the next corner and halted again. 

He’d probably sufficiently detained Muscles and Glasses. But there were two other bodyguards. Maybe Zolchevsky too. Alex couldn’t rule out the possibility they were on their way after him.

OK - he just needed to find somewhere to hide until backup arrived. The north entrance was straight ahead of him. He could go that way, but he could be hanging around for a while. That would leave him exposed. There was another conference room to his left. Was he better off blending in there? How long till backup arrived?

His earpiece rang again. 

“I’m close,” he said, answering. “Are you here?”

“You can’t be working _all_ weekend,” said an all-too-familiar voice in his ear.

“ _Tom,_ ” Alex groaned. “ _Please._ ”

“It’s one _measly_ social event. Besides, it’s dead awkward; I _need_ you here, mate.”

It was useless to fathom what was so important to Tom about Alex being there; once Tom got something into his head, that was it. He wouldn’t let it go. Not unless Alex gave him _something_.

“Yeah, all right; I’ll drop in when I can,” he agreed. “Now can you _please_ get off the line?” He was still standing in the middle of the corridor. Too exposed. He had to make a decision unless his backup was already here.

“Not when you’re blatantly lying,” Tom argued.

Bloody hell. Blending in it was - even if it was only for a few minutes. Alex moved that way, glancing back, satisfied that at least he seemed to have thrown off Zolchevsky’s men for now.

“Why would you think that?” he asked, his eyes already picking out the attire of the people nearest the door as he slipped into the room. They were dressed semi formally - chinos and blazers at best; he was a bit smart, but if he tugged off his tie - 

“Do you even know where it is?” Tom demanded.

“Er - ” Alex shoved the bowtie into his pocket “Tell me and I’ll know?” he said vaguely, undoing his top button with one hand, and wondering if he ought to ditch the briefcase.

“Great!” said Tom, sounding much more cheerful. “It’s in Twickenham, in this conference hotel - ”

Alex lost what he said next; he’d frozen where he was. Cold dread pooling in his stomach, he turned slowly on the spot. His eyes landed on the projector screens proudly proclaiming the purpose of the event he’d just walked into. Screens he should have noticed the second he’d walked in.

**Brookland School Class of 2008 Ten Year Reunion**

“ _Fuck._ " 


	7. Reunion Hotel, Twickenham (Part II)

**Brookland School Class of 2008 Ten Year Reunion**

“ _Fuck._ ” 

In his horror, Alex forgot to say it quietly. Immediately, a few of the group nearest the door glanced around with curious expressions. No one that had been in his actual class, he didn’t think, but it wasn’t the best start. 

He turned abruptly away, trying to get his thoughts together. What was he going to do? The urge to get out _now_ was almost overwhelming: a room full of his ex-classmates would have been a bad scenario on any day; mid-chase from an enemy felt like the worst of nightmares. He’d never thought there would be a situation where he fit into a crowd _too_ well. The odds of being distracted were high and if Zolchevsky’s men found him - 

“Alex?” 

Tom’s voice in his ear. Shit. In all that Alex had forgotten that he was on the phone. 

He closed his eyes and took a breath. Forced down the panic and instead tried to analyse the situation with detached logic. He’d wanted a room to get lost in; he’d got it. This might be less than ideal, but leaving via the door he’d just come in would be lunacy. He had no idea how hot on his tail security was: he could find himself having a bust up with two Spetsnaz soldiers feet away from a hundred and fifty people who knew him. Alex turned his head again and saw another doorway at the opposite end of the room. That would be closer to the north entrance. Maybe he could just pick his way down to there and hover until he got MI5’s call? 

“ _Aaaaalex?_ ” Tom pressed. 

Yes - it could work. But if Tom realised he was there, that really _would_ cause problems. He’d never let Alex leave again.

“Got to go,” Alex said, and disconnected the call. 

MI5 couldn’t be far away. He just had to keep his head down and not capture anyone’s attention for the next little while. Five minutes, tops. How hard could it be? He was a master at looking like he belonged whilst not inviting attention. A confident stroll that looked focused enough so that no one would intercept him. Textbook.

But the difference between this and all his other ops, he thought as he started making his way across the room, was that he knew all these faces - and, even more importantly, they knew him. He was getting more curious looks than he’d like. They might not immediately put two and two together - it had been a decade, after all, and it wasn’t like he was on Instagram - but how long did he have before someone recognised him properly? Would anyone care about him, or would the whispers start up again, just like they had at school?

Instinctively, he turned his head away from the people crowded around a table, a few of which he _definitely_ recognised and were looking a bit too hard in his direction. His gaze landed on a small group gathered on the opposite side of the room. One of them was leaning against the wall. His hair was cut short and he had a new scar down his face and a few more tattoos but the sight of him made Alex start. _Fuck_. What the hell was _Simon_ doing here? Wasn’t he supposed to be in prison?

He had to have been released. _Bollocks._ Alex had only done that operation as a favour to MI5 - well, Scotland Yard - on the assumption he’d never see Simon again. A confrontation in the middle of their school reunion was definitely not what he’d signed up for.

He ducked his head away again; spied a bar and headed for that instead. At least with his back to the room he had less chance of catching anyone’s eye. He reached it and the bartender flashed him a quick smile.

“What can I get you?”

“What beers have you got?” Alex asked, stalling for time. 

“Spitfire, Bishops Finger, Budweiser - ”

Alex tuned him out, hooking out his phone instead. Nothing from ‘5. This was getting ridiculous. How long had it been since he’d requested exfil? Eight minutes? Ten? Extraction was supposed to take no more than _five_. 

“ - so what do you want?”

Alex glanced up. Gave the taps a quick survey. 

“Whitstable Bay,” he said. As if he was going to drink it. 

He pocketed his phone and gave a brief glance around the room - just to check that Zolchevsky’s lot hadn’t dropped in - and caught sight of an all-too-familiar man with dark hair making his way in his direction. Alex groaned internally, but there was nowhere for him to go - he’d definitely been spotted. 

“I thought you weren’t coming!” Tom burst out as soon as he reached the bar. He looked startled as Alex grabbed his upper arm and pulled him close.

“I need to stay on the down-low,” Alex muttered. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

Tom grinned. “Mate, it’s OK to go out on a Friday night, y’know.” He slipped out of Alex’s grasp and flung an arm around Alex’s neck. Alex caught a strong whiff of beer. Right. At least three pints in, then. And he’d only been here an hour. 

That put paid to any dream Tom - a notorious lightweight - was going to take him seriously.

“It’s good to see you,” Tom said. “You made it sound like you were ditching!”

Probably best to go along with it - at least until backup arrived. Tom wasn’t a quiet drunk and Alex couldn’t risk a scene.

“How could I possibly miss this?” Alex muttered, glancing around at the groups immediately around them. Honestly, it was exactly like they were back at school. With more posturing and worse haircuts. 

Tom rolled his eyes as the bartender slid the pint glass towards Alex. “It’s not that bad. A bit of socialising never hurt anyone.”

Alex disagreed - the number of parties he’d been at where he’d witnessed assassination attempts - but it wasn’t worth the argument. He dug a fiver from his pocket and gave it to the bartender, raising a hand to indicate he didn’t need change as his gaze darted towards the door he’d entered the room through. It was still closed. He knew better than to think that meant he was off the hook, but if he managed to find somewhere he could keep an eye on both of the doors…

“C’mon - James and the guys’ll be _psyched_.” Tom pulled away, tugging on Alex’s arm. But he stopped and stared as Alex - resigned to his fate, at least for the next few minutes - stooped to pick up the laptop bag. “You must be joking. You brought your _briefcase_ with you?”

“I told you I was working,” Alex said impatiently. It wasn’t like he could leave the bag against the bar - if Zolchevsky’s henchmen came in, they’d see it and know he was there. Really, he needed to hide it. 

Tom seemed to be thinking along similar lines. Before Alex could argue, he’d snatched the briefcase away, and, with a carelessness that showed exactly how much respect he had for the security of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, threw it under one of the long tables - covered with food and punch bowls - set up around the room. He looked pleased when Alex didn’t immediately dive after it.

“See?” he said. “S’not that difficult to take a night off. C’mon - we’re in the corner.”

How on earth Tom had managed to spot him from the opposite end of the room, Alex had no idea, but he let himself be steered in that direction, making sure to avoid catching the eye of anyone around him and very deliberately _not_ looking over to where Simon Wheeler was standing.

Halfway across the room, they were interrupted by the sound of shattering glass. Instinctively, Alex tensed, scanning the crowd for the threat, only to find his eyes locked on Kabir Khatri a few metres away. Alex’s stomach gave a jolt. Kabir wasn’t even pretending to care about the glass at his feet; he was too busy staring at Alex. Not with fear, as Alex might’ve expected, given what had happened to Kabir last time they’d met. More like he expected Alex to fade away at any second.

_Odd._ But there was no time to dwell on it - it hadn’t taken much for the people Kabir was standing with to figure out what had caused the slip of the hand and they were already turning in Alex’s direction. It was Alex’s turn to grab Tom and steer him hurriedly towards James Hale’s group. 

“Wasn’t that Kabir?” Tom asked, sounding entirely too interested for comfort.

“Maybe,” said Alex vaguely. Tom grinned; caught his eye. 

“Didn’t you and he once - ”

“That was twelve years ago,” Alex interrupted. “And it was a _dare_.” _Christ_ knew what Tom would do if he found out that Alex had run into Kabir since they’d left school. Alex had thought about telling him the night he’d come home six months ago, his cover irretrievably blown, Alexei Oblonsky dead - but, frankly, the whole thing had been a mess and he hadn’t felt much like talking about it. That, and he’d known full well what Tom would say. 

Tom waggled his eyebrows, confirming it. Banking on Tom’s distraction being easily distracted on account of his tipsiness, Alex pulled him forwards and stopped in front of the group they’d been heading for. He’d never thought he’d be so grateful to see James Hale. 

“Alex!” James said, looking amazed. He was clutching a beer in each hand. The last ten years hadn’t exactly been kind to him, Alex noticed - his hairline was inches higher than it had been at school and he’d taken up heavy smoking if the yellow under his fingernails was anything to go by. “Tom promised you’d be here, but, well…” He trailed off with a faintly embarrassed expression.

“We didn’t like his odds,” the man to his left said with a grin. It took Alex a second to remember his name, the unkempt stubble he was sporting throwing him off. Ryan? He’d been on the football team. They’d never been close. Ryan had always been a bit too intrigued as to why Alex missed so much school. He was eying Alex with keen interest now. 

“Yeah, well,” Alex said, trying to shrug off the attention. “He can’t lose every bet.” He slid himself into the circle, back against the wall where, with only a fractional movement of his head, he could see most of the room at once. Tom fell in next to him, taking one of the pint glasses from James. 

“Oi,” he objected, examining it. “You’ve drunk some of this!”

James held up his spare hand. “You snooze, you lose, Harris.”

Grins around the small circle. Alex forced a tight smile, his gaze darting back towards the entrance. Doors still closed. He surveyed the room, making sure he’d not missed anyone coming in. 

“ - doing well for yourself, Rider; still in that banking job?”

Alex only caught the tail end of the question when Tom elbowed him in the ribs. He blinked, his eyes snapping back to the person who had spoken. 

“Yeah; that’s right,” he said, even as his brain tried to catch up as to why _Josh Hersch_ of all people would think he knew anything about what Alex did for a living. He glanced at Tom. His friend was wearing a pleased expression but it was hard to tell if it was because he was proud he’d managed to remember to tell the right lie or if he was just pleased to have finally dragged Alex to a social gathering. 

“ _Banking?_ ” James asked, wrinkling his nose. “Wasn’t that what your uncle did?”

“Mmm.” Not keen to be subjected to the sort of inquisition he imagined everyone else had already been through, Alex directed his attention back at Josh. “What’re you doing these days?”

Josh grinned, chest puffing out a little. “Finally took over my Dad’s store,” he said. “I’ve changed some things up - you should really stop by again.” 

_Right_. It was coming back to Alex now - he’d run into Josh just after he’d landed on a flight from Syria more than a little battered and bruised only to find the fridge empty. He’d been so out of it he’d ended up in Oakley Street Newsagents before he’d remembered it was run by one of his classmate’s dads. That’d been - what, five years ago?

“Course I will,” he lied smoothly. Out of the corner of his eye the door in the far right corner opened, and he craned his neck - but it wasn’t one of Zolchevsky’s men. How long had it been now since he’d asked for backup? A lot more than ten minutes. Fifteen? This was bordering on farcical.

“And how’re things in the _scene_?” Ryan asked him. At least, Alex _thought_ he was being asked, because Ryan was giving him a meaningful look, but it felt like he should have understood the question a lot more than he did.

“What scene?” he asked warily, shooting a look to Tom, who seemed to be sniggering under his breath - and avoiding Alex’s eye.

“You know,” Ryan said. “ _The scene_.” He looked around conspiratorially then leaned forward. “ _BDSM_. Josh said you were big into it.”

Alex stared. Tom’s sniggers had become impossible to hide; he was almost doubled over, his pint glass tilting dangerously. James rescued it, eyebrows raised at Alex, looking rather uncertain - but not _surprised_. Clearly they’d discussed this before Alex had arrived. But James’s unsettled expression coupled with Ryan’s earnest one strongly suggested that this wasn’t entirely a joke.

“Why would Josh say that?” he said blankly. He glanced at Josh, who was grinning. 

“Well, y’know,” he said, “you were all secretive about those bruises on your neck…”

The bruises on - Oh. Wait. He’d gone into Josh’s store straight after _Raqqa_.

“Really?” Alex asked before he could stop himself. “ _That’s_ the first thing you thought of?”

James’s relief was palpable; he choked out a laugh. “See?” he said, turning to Josh. “I told you it’s only Ryan who’s into that kinky shit.”

“Sod off,” Ryan said, scowling. His good humour seemed to have evaporated on learning that Alex wasn’t, after all, into the “scene”. “At least I’ve got a girlfriend. More than the rest of you.”

“Tom’s got a girlfriend,” Alex said, deciding it was about time to get the conversation away from himself.

“You do?” Josh - always a lover of gossip - visibly perked up and turned to Tom, whose laughter had stopped at once. 

“She’s not my _girlfriend_. We just hook up.”

“Every Friday without fail,” Alex said, eyes darting to the first door again, and then to the other one. “For the last four months.”

“ _Four months_?” Josh was nudging Tom with a grin. “You _dog_. Who is she, then?”

“Nothing serious!”

“Allison,” Alex supplied. He dug in his pocket for his phone. “He works with her.”

“Oh ho! A workplace romance!” James said. 

“ _I_ _t’s not serious_.”

“Four months?” Josh sniggered. “Can practically hear the wedding bells.”

“I’m not the one who’s actually _been_ married,” Tom protested, snatching his glass from James again.

“ _Been_ being the operative word, mate,” James said with a rueful smile. “Bad enough seeing Katie here as it is.” He took a swig from the glass he was holding in his other hand and then tilted it towards the middle of the circle. “Don’t get married young, folks.”

“Give us the goss, then,” said Josh. “What happened? Did she cheat?”

The attention sufficiently diverted away from him, Alex stepped back, glancing down at his phone. Tom was, thankfully, too busy downing his pint to notice. 

It had been _over_ fifteen minutes. Where the _hell_ were MI5? They had set backup procedures for a reason. Unless Nick had forgotten to call them - but he was nervous, not stupid. Alex shot off a text to him - _Status?_ \- and then debated whether that was enough. Maybe he ought to just cut loose and leave. The MI5 case officer had reiterated over and over again that once they had the laptop they should get out of there. Maybe Alex could slip out of the north entrance and leg it to the train station. It wasn’t that far - maybe a couple of miles. It would be against the agreed procedures, but since ‘5 seemed to be ignoring them _anyway_ …

The conversation he’d just stepped back from had moved on - James and Ryan having a heated debate about why, exactly, James’s ex-wife had cheated on him. No one would notice Alex slipping away. He took another step backwards and then turned - 

\- and came face to face with Simon Wheeler.

_Bollocks._ He’d kept a close watch on the entrances and exits. He’d taken his eye off the other, subtler threats in the room.

“Hello _Jockey_.” Simon’s lip curled as soon as he’d said it. He’d probably come just on the off chance that Alex would be there, hoping for the opportunity to catch him. 

Not good.

“Simon.” No sense in wasting words; not when Simon was obviously spoiling for a fight that Alex didn’t have the time - or desire - to give him. 

“Been a long time.” 

“Not long enough,” Alex muttered under his breath.

“Unfortunately for you the court disagreed.” There was a note of danger in his tone; an underlying threat that Alex was just a little too familiar with. He glanced around. Tom and Josh and the others hadn’t noticed Simon, but Alex was less than keen that they overheard. He stepped around Simon, further away from the group.

“How long were you in for?” There was no point in feigning ignorance: not when “Jockey” was supposed to have been dealing around Simon’s territory.

“6 months.” He flexed his hands drawing Alex’s attention to the knuckle brand. PDC. Great. He’d thought that Simon liked his independence too much - and wasn’t so much of an idiot - to get marked up by one of London’s gangs. Then again, maybe there weren’t a lot of options in prison. Alex wouldn’t know. 

“Bad luck,” he returned coolly. “Well, see you around.” He made to step away, but Simon caught hold of his arm. His grip was surprisingly strong.

“Didn’t see you in there,” he bit out. It wasn’t a question. 

Alex debated his next move. He could get out of Simon’s hold fairly easily and leg it. But it was more or less guaranteed to make a scene. Which was definitely to be avoided if at all possible.

“Heard there was a bust in Germany,” he lied. He tried to shrug out of Simon’s hand but the grip tightened. “Got out just in time.”

“Handy. Seems to me like you came asking after my supplier and then a few weeks later I’m in the nick.”

“Your problem, not mine,” Alex said. He gave a short, sharp twist of his arm; it came free. He straightened his jacket. 

“Everything all right?” 

Both of them turned at the voice. It was Josh; he’d extracted himself from the conversation about James’s ex and was eying them both keenly, no doubt interested in knowing why the old school drug dealer was busy talking to someone he thought was a banker. 

Luckily, Simon didn’t seem to like the attention any more than Alex did. “None of your business, Hersch.” He sneered in Alex’s direction. “Maybe we should take this outside.”

“Sure.” Alex’s voice was even. Anything to get away from Josh - and in the direction of his escape.

He began edging through the crowd. Simon followed him - just a little too close for comfort, as if he didn’t want to allow Alex any chance of slipping away. It didn’t bode well. What was going to happen when they got out of the room? If Zolchevsky’s men were around, that would cause all sorts of complications. It was one thing for Alex to escape alone - another when he had an aggrieved drug dealer hanging onto his arm, spoiling for a fight.

There was only one thing for it, he realised. He stopped suddenly where they were, turning around.

“Fine,” Simon said, his mouth twisting. “If you want to have it out here - ”

He didn’t get any further. His hand shot to his hip, scrabbling to pull out the small dart that had just hit him. 

“What the _hell_ , Rider - ”

Alex pocketed the phone he’d just shot the dart from. Simon held the offending missile up, blinking at it. Then, without warning, he staggered. Alex caught hold of his shoulder, plucking the dart from his hand.

“You’ll be alright,” he said, shoving it into his pocket. “Don’t worry.”

“What did you _do?_ ” Simon demanded, before his knees buckled and Alex was forced to take his weight to stop him falling into several of their classmates.

He surveyed the room for a good place to set Simon down, and found himself instead staring at the horrified gaze of Bethany Marsh a few metres away.

Fuck. Of _course_ she would be the one to be watching at the wrong time. Had she heard what Simon had said?

“You’ve just had too much to drink,” he told Simon, hoping it was enough to dispel any curiosity from the people around them. “C’mon.”

He yanked Simon in the direction of one of the chairs around the edge of the room. His old classmate was heavy. Alex was strong, but he must have been making it look difficult because after a few seconds he was conscious of someone else coming to help, taking Simon’s other arm.

“What’s wrong with him?” A female voice. Alex craned his neck. A young woman with brown hair who definitely looked familiar, if he could only place her.

“Just had too much to drink,” he tried. “I’ve got it.” 

She ignored him, helping him pull Simon through the crowd. “Sure it’s just drink?” A note of disapproval in her voice. Maybe she remembered what Simon had been like at school. Except as far as Alex knew Simon had never actually used any of the stuff he dealt. 

Alex didn’t answer her. The less said the better, probably.

“Well, this certainly explains a lot,” she continued as they steered Simon around one of the tables. “You’re in with Wheeler’s crowd, are you?”

“Er - ” Alex stopped up short. It would be a lot easier to know what the answer _should_ be if he could place her face. “ - what makes you say that?”

“Your friends from the tube,” she said as they reached the chairs and Alex dropped Simon heavily into one of them. “You know. The ones who stabbed you. Or are we ignoring that happened?” 

She looked up at him, eyebrows raised. Alex’s stomach plummeted. Oh. _Oh_ . He’d been well out of it when he’d been stabbed in Kensington - had lost so much blood he’d required a transfusion on arrival at St Dominic’s - but he had a hazy memory of a woman pursuing him through the station; a woman who seemed to know him. _This_ woman, apparently.

_Rachel_ , his mind finally supplied.

“How _is_ the shoulder?” she asked, her tone cool. 

“It’s fine,” said Alex, a touch defensively, even as his left side twinged at the reminder of the old injury. He wasn’t sure he remembered her being especially nice to him, now he thought about it.

Rachel held his gaze. Her lips were pressed together. “Of course it is,” she said. “I bet your private hospital really set it right.” The statement dripped with condescension. Alex didn’t know what to say to that. Luckily at that moment Simon chose to slump over onto his legs. Rachel dropped to her knees at once as Alex cringed internally. MI6’s tech team had told him the sedative was fast acting. A little _too_ fast acting for this situation. He could only pray that Rachel - she was a doctor, he thought he remembered as she took Simon’s wrist between her fingers - wouldn’t see this as a medical emergency, because the last thing he needed was to deal with _that_ shitshow on top of everything else.

A vibration in Alex’s pocket. His phone. Relief flooded him. He stepped away, pulling it out to check his messages.

_3 minutes. Main car park._

What hadn’t they understood about North Entrance? There was no way Alex was going to throw himself out into the fray and try to battle his way across the hotel again. 

_Negative. Exfil requested from north car park._

The text came back quickly; at least they seemed to have woken up.

_Request confirmation no other option?_

Bloody hell. This really shouldn’t be difficult. An agent had requested exfiltration from an operation more than fifteen minutes ago, and now they were quibbling about the pickup location?

_Trapped on north side._

It wasn’t _strictly_ speaking true, but Alex wasn’t about to get into a long-winded argument about the possibility of civilian - and his own - endangerment if he tried to get back to where he’d started.

_North car park. Three minutes._

Finally.

_Confirmed,_ he messaged back, and pocketed the phone. He skirted around Simon and Rachel - the latter of whom threw him a dirty look, like she didn’t appreciate being left to deal with a known drug dealer - heading towards the back exit. Three minutes be damned. He was getting out of here now. The last thing he needed was to be embroiled in any more school dramas. 

He’d barely reached the end of the long tables when there was a hand on his shoulder. A strong, painful grip like Simon’s had been.

But when Alex shot around, he found himself face to face with one of Zolchevsky’s Spetsnaz soldiers.

_Fuck_. In all the crap with Simon he’d taken his eye off the doors.

Alex barely hesitated. In one swift movement he twisted out of the man’s grasp, seized hold of the long table in front of him, and upended it.

The whole thing was a lot longer - and heavier - than he’d banked on. He’d hoped to throw it into the man’s stomach, winding him - instead it struck lower, doubling the guard over as he grabbed his crotch. Plates of food and drink went everywhere, the sound of shattering glass and crockery and the clatter of food trays filling the room. 

Alex didn’t hang around. Before the man could recover, he’d already shot away, towards the back entrance of the room. Time to get out. _Now_. Before anyone got hurt. 

He pushed roughly past people, reached the door and yanked it open. In an ideal situation, he’d have his gun in his hand, but shooting someone _here_ was definitely out of the question. Instead he settled for a quick check of the hallway and slipped out. He couldn’t run here - he’d be too obvious - so he settled for a brisk walking pace instead, hoping it would be at least a minute before the guard recovered.

“Alex. _Alex!_ ”

Alex tried to ignore it. He did. He needed to get _out_. The trouble was, he _recognised_ that voice - soft, deep - and the last thing he wanted was for its owner to get caught up in another one of Alex’s operations.

“Kabir,” he said, stopping and reluctantly turning around. His old friend’s face broke into a smile and Alex’s stomach tightened again. “I’m really sorry, I’ve got to go - ” 

Kabir’s smile faded a fraction. Another twist of Alex’s gut. “It’s OK. I just wanted to - ”

Behind him, Alex saw the door of the conference room move. It took only a second for him to bundle Kabir sideways, into a side corridor, and then straight through the first door they came to, before he closed it hurriedly behind them.

It was only then he realised where he’d trapped them. A supply closet. And a small one at that. Kabir was pressed against the shelves behind him, eyes wide, and there was only perhaps a foot between them. 

Unbidden, memories of _that_ dare at school rose to the forefront of Alex’s mind.

There was a faint flush to Kabir’s cheeks; maybe he was thinking the same. “Um…”

“I wasn’t - this isn’t - ” Despite the fact he was an agent with twelve years’ experience in the field, and trained to stay calm under pressure, Alex seemed to have lost the ability to form coherent sentences. “...Some people are after me?” he finished, somehow unable to come up with any other explanation. What else was he going to say? That he’d wrestled Kabir into a cupboard on _purpose_?

Kabir blinked. “Again?”

“Umm…” Alex didn’t really have an answer to that. His brain was still being annoyingly slow.

“Is it the same people?” Kabir’s eyes had widened a little.

“Er - yeah,” Alex said, deciding that a lie was probably better than the truth. “I’ve got someone coming to pick me up - but, er, you should probably stay here for a bit - ”

“So should you,” Kabir said. “What if they catch you?”

Alex had the bizarre, irrational thought that maybe he _could_ just stay in this cupboard. To hell with MI5 - and MI6 for that matter. Maybe he’d just stay here - he could have a nice catch up with Kabir for a while, leave in his own time....

Alex’s phone vibrated in his pocket. With some reluctance - and difficulty, given the cramped space - he pulled it out.

_On standby. Confirm ETA?_

“I’ve got to go,” Alex said. He glanced back up at Kabir, whose expression was tense, filled with something like...disappointment? Was that just Alex’s imagination?

“That’s OK.” Kabir straightened up, pulling on the lapels of his jacket - a pale linen blazer. Alex eyed it, an idea coming to him.

“D’you think we could swap jackets?”

Kabir stared. Admittedly it _had_ sounded a bit weirder out loud than in Alex’s head.

“They’re probably looking out for someone in a dinner jacket,” he explained. “It’ll help if I’ve changed.”

Another blink. Then Kabir shook his head, as if he couldn’t quite believe Alex, but he shrugged off his blazer anyway, wriggling a bit in the tight space. Alex let his own slip off his shoulders, holding it out with his left hand as he took Kabir’s in his right. Kabir didn’t take it.

“I won't fit in yours.” 

Despite himself, Alex nearly laughed out loud. Of course he wouldn't; they might have been a similar height, but Kabir wasn't exactly a small man. Alex had filled out since he was fourteen, but had, in the end, turned out much slimmer than his father. Less soldier and more like Ian - lean muscle; more likely to be hidden and underestimated. Kabir was much broader than he was.

“You’re right,” he said, and lay the jacket over a bucket instead as he pulled on Kabir’s blazer. It was too big for him, of course - but it didn’t really matter. “Thanks. Er - see you round?” His hand was already fumbling for the doorknob.

“Alex, I…” Kabir’s voice trailed off. Seemed to reconsider. “It was good to see you,” he said at last. “Just - take care of yourself, OK?”

“I always do,” Alex promised, trying to ignore the funny jolt in his chest Kabir’s words had given him, and let himself out, back into the corridor. 

He texted MI5 with his left hand without looking - _Coming, ETA 30 seconds -_ and pocketed the phone again. Stepped around the corner and found the Spetsnaz soldier ahead of him. Between Alex and the exit. 

Of course he was.

Right. Nothing else for it. He’d had enough and was ready to get out of here. Alex glanced around, making sure they were alone, and then took half a dozen silent steps forward and swung a fist towards the man’s temple.

He’d miscalculated. Forgotten that the glass door ahead - if not actually showing Alex’s reflection - would warn the bodyguard of movement. The soldier twisted at the last second, blocking the punch so forcefully Alex stepped backwards. 

Shaking his smarting wrist, he barely had time to dodge past the follow-up kick. A feint, he realised, as a palm strike landed to his sternum, knocking him forcefully back into the wall. His side smacked heavily into the pedestal to his left, nearly upending the vase on top of it. Before he could lash out the man was on him, meaty arm shoved into his throat. Alex scrabbled at it, with one hand and reached the other for his gun. 

The man seemed to pick up on his movement and pinned his other wrist. 

“Where is the bag?” he demanded, accented English almost indiscernible.

“Can’t - breathe,” Alex rasped. The pressure let up just slightly, and as he sucked in an audible breath his thoughts clicked back into gear. He was trapped. But if he could just create a distraction - 

“I - hid it,” he said. Reached his free hand towards the pedestal, feeling across the surface until he felt smooth porcelain. The man’s eyes were fixed on his.

“Where?” Another shove to his neck.

“Kitchen.” He had worked his way to the lip of the vase. “Near the fat fryers.” 

The man frowned. Maybe he’d already checked in the kitchens. It didn’t matter. In a split second, Alex’s grip closed around the vase and he swung it forcefully at the man’s head. It connected with a crunch and a smash. 

The arm came off his throat and Alex heaved heavy breaths in as he watched the man crumple to the ground. He waited for several seconds, waiting for the guard to move, but he stayed still. Alex had knocked him out cold. 

That was three out of four down. Five, maybe, if you were counting Zolchevsky. Alex looked quickly up and down the lobby, relieved to find that it was still empty. Not wanting to waste any more time, he stepped over the body and pushed his way through the doors, into the cool spring night. 

No black Lincoln - the standard Government issue. But Alex halted as he spotted the very last thing he’d wanted to - Zolchevsky and the bodyguard, next to a maroon Jaguar. Zolchevsky was just climbing inside, but the guard looked up. Caught sight of Alex. 

Alex’s change of jacket didn’t seem to make any difference. In a second the guard had whipped out his gun. Alex ducked at once, just as there was a crack - and a bullet hit the glass behind him, the glass shattering with a loud smash. A scream somewhere to his left - _shit,_ there had to be a civilian - and Alex moved to the right instead, another gunshot burying itself in the brick above his head. He was already fumbling for his own gun. 

And then - out of nowhere - an explosion. A huge bang that sent pain shooting through Alex’s eardrums and knocked him back into the wall, the breath slapped out of him as he looked, astonished, at the fireball that had just been Zolchevsky’s car.

_If Zolchevsky left with the laptop, they wouldn’t get another chance to steal it_. That was what MI5 had told Alex. What they’d left out was _why_.

A joint operation between ‘5 and ‘6 to get the laptop. A solo one by ‘5 to get rid of Zolchevsky, it turned out.

Alex swore under his breath. Ears still ringing, clambered to his feet. His head hurt; he must have hit it. With some difficulty, he turned to look to his left, checking that the civilian was all right.

And found himself looking at Bethany Marsh again. She had her back pressed against the outside wall of the hotel, cigarette still clutched between her index and middle fingers, her other hand over her mouth. Her face was ashen.

_Bollocks._

“Are you OK?” Alex asked. His voice sounded far away. Noting that she seemed to be in shock - _again -_ he moved towards her. She scrambled to get away.

“Stay away from me!” Her voice was hoarse. Alex stopped dead where he was. 

The honk of a car horn. Lights flashed on in the far corner of the car park. Alex eyed Bethany, wondering if he ought to leave her alone, but before he could make up his mind, she’d thrown the cigarette away and was darting through the hole that had recently been the glass door, back into the hotel, running through the lobby. 

That decided that, then. The case officer would have to deal with that later. At least she’d already signed the OSA.

Feeling wearier than he had in awhile, Alex jogged down the steps from the hotel and towards - at last - his backup. Definitely the only kind of reunion he was interested in, he thought. Other than, maybe, a chat with Mrs Jones about how he was never, _ever_ working with MI5 again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a short epilogue after this chapter. Stay tuned!


	8. Epilogue: After the reunion

It was three o’clock on Sunday afternoon when the front door of the house in Chelsea opened and then closed with a too-loud bang. 

“Well,” Tom’s voice announced from the hallway. “I’m home, you absolute git.” 

There was a brief moment where, sprawled out on the sofa, Alex wondered whether he might be able to pretend he wasn’t home. The 43 messages over the past forty-odd hours that he’d largely ignored had promised that a bollocking from his best mate was definitely coming his way. But if he’d been really bothered, he would have changed out of his t-shirt and jogging bottoms and dragged himself over to Liverpool Street to write up the report on the stunt ‘5 had pulled in Twickenham before Tom had got back. Tom’s bollockings were always more indignant than really serious, anyway.

Admittedly Alex hadn’t been expecting to have something thrown at him the second Tom walked through the doorway of the living room. 

“ _Ow._ ”

“It’s what you deserve,” Tom said. “You’re lucky I bothered bringing it back.”

Alex bent over to retrieve the object. A black briefcase with a shoulder strap. Zolchevsky’s laptop bag. Bloody hell. How had Tom remembered that? He’d already been three sheets to the wind when Alex had come across him and he’d have put money on Tom having continued drinking after he’d left. 

“Can’t believe you abandoned me,” Tom complained.

“I told you I was working.” Alex threw the case back onto the floor and sat up, tucking one bare foot underneath him.

Tom looked thoroughly unimpressed. “Yeah, right,” he scoffed. “You just _happened_ to be working in the same hotel Brooklands was holding its reunion?”

And _Alex_ was supposed to be the one that didn’t believe in coincidences. “Believe what you want,” he said with a shrug. “But that’s why I had to leave.”

“Right,” Tom said again, obviously unconvinced. “Well, you should’ve stayed to defend your honour, mate.”

“Why’s that?” 

“Turned into a complete shitshow after you left, didn’t it?” Tom came around the sofa, dropped his weekend bag on the floor and fell onto the cushioned seat. “Honestly, mate, you can’t cause havoc and then just _leave_.”

Alex hadn’t thought he’d caused _that_ much havoc. An upended table, sure, but he thought he’d done it quickly enough so no one had really noticed it was him. 

“What happened?” he asked, dreading the answer.

“Well,” said Tom, with an air that suggested Alex better buckle up for a story, “it started when Beth Marsh came running back in…”

_“What the hell’s that all about?” James jerked a thumb towards the corner of the room as they turned away from the bar, glasses in hand. Paid for by James, of course, seeing as he’d drunk half Tom’s pint._

_Tom craned his neck, trying to see over people. There seemed to be a small crowd swarming towards the back corner, towards the door. Over the general chatter of the room seemed to rise the sound of hysterical sobs. He shrugged and took a sip of his beer._

_“Who cares?”_

_“Looks interesting.”_

_Tom shifted, not all that eager to go find out what had one of their classmates sobbing in front of half their year._

_“Unless you want to go back to hearing Ryan talk about ‘the scene’,” James said pointedly._

_That was enough to make up Tom’s mind. Talking about sexploits had been fine and all in school, but ten years out and it made his stomach churn. Or maybe that was the beer? Who knew. “Yeah, hard pass on that one, mate.”_

_“Thought so.” They pushed their way through the crowd slipping around to the edge. Just in time to see Katie Lindmark escorting Bethany Marsh out of the room. Her eyes were red; her face flushed._

_“Crying drunk?” Tom speculated. “Or d’you reckon it was a break up?”_

_“Nah, she’s single,” James said._

_Tom choked on his beer. “You on the market for_ another _classmate?”_

_James shrugged, looking shifty. He’d been looking to get in with Beth to make Katie jealous, Tom reckoned, eying him. He felt a lot like rolling his eyes. He couldn’t imagine anything weirder than hooking up with your old schoolmates._

_“Well, drama’s over, I guess,” James said. He turned around, scanning the room. “Dunno where Josh and Ryan’ve gone, though...”_

_“Mmm.” Tom wasn’t sure he was that fussed about either of them. But he didn’t have long to think about it; a few seconds later, Josh was stumbling towards them through a rapidly disintegrating crowd, looking excited._

_“Did’ya hear?” he asked breathlessly, stopping in front of them. “About what got Beth Marsh all worked up?”_

_“No?” James sounded keen. Tom was getting less bothered about finding out by the second._

_Josh leaned closer, gaze darting around as if he were worried others were listening in - even though it was almost a done deal that he’d already told everyone he’d met on his way through the crowd._

_“It was Rider!”_

_“Alex?” Tom looked around. Where had he run off to, anyway? One minute he’d been standing next to Tom, the next he’d disappeared._

_“Yeah. Poor girl was hysterical, said he’d blown up someone in the car park…”_

_James scoffed. “Yeah, right. Sounds like she got some drugs off Wheeler…”_

Alex tried not to shift in his seat as Tom paused his recounting of the story.

“ _Did_ you blow someone up?” his friend demanded. 

“Of course not.”

Tom’s expression was sceptical. The trouble was, he had rather a habit of assuming that anything out of the ordinary had something to do with Alex, and even Alex was prepared to admit that this looked suspicious.

“It wasn’t me,” Alex tried instead.

“That’s a yes, then,” Tom decided, and carried on.

_“Nah; can’t’ve been drugs. Wheeler’s been passed out for the last ten minutes.” Josh pointed over Tom’s shoulder. Tom and James turned to see Simon Wheeler lying on his back across several chairs a few feet away. Hovering over him was Rachel Plaid. Her white dress seemed to be covered with a very large, bright pink stain across the front; the ends of her long brown hair were wet and straggly._

_“What happened to_ her _?” Tom asked. A bit too loudly, it turned out; Rachel’s head jerked up._

_“If you really want to know,” she said angrily, “your mate Rider threw punch all over me.”_

“No, I didn’t,” Alex interjected.

“Yeah,” Tom said flatly, “you did.”

_“He abandoned me with_ him _,” Rachel said, jerking her head to indicate Brooklands’ most notorious ex-drug dealer, “and then, out of nowhere, pulled over the whole table.” Her voice was rising. Tom held up his hands, sensing an argument coming._

_“I’m sure he didn’t mean to,” he said, even though it sounded a lot like something Alex would do._

_“You must be joking,” she said. “He’s a bloody psychopath. You know I had to chase him through a tube station with a stab wound three years ago?”_

_Tom frowned. That couldn’t be right. Alex was always getting injured one way or another, and he wasn’t always specific about what the injury was, but he was sure Alex would have told him if he’d got stabbed, and he_ definitely _would’ve told him if one of their old school friends had been there -_

“I forgot, all right?” 

“You _forgot_ you got stabbed?”

“Er - no,” Alex admitted. “I lied about that. Told you I’d dislocated my shoulder. But I forgot Rachel Marsh had been there.” At another incredulous look from Tom, he defended: “I had other things on my mind. Like, you know, being stabbed.”

“What were you doing running through a tube station if you’d been stabbed?”

Not thinking straight, was the answer. He’d thought he’d left the woman who’d done it behind in Bosnia a fortnight before; to meet her on the District Line, having tracked down the ‘6 informant at precisely the moment she did, had been a bit of an unpleasant surprise. He’d gone after her before he’d really thought about what he’d been doing. Or about the fact he had an open, bleeding wound in his shoulder. Shock did strange things to people.

“Classified,” he settled on. Tom huffed, but continued anyway.

_“He got_ stabbed?" _Josh asked, eyes widening. “What was it, a mugging? Or - wait, was it drugs?”_

_Tom nearly rolled his eyes. Hadn’t everyone got over that rumour that Alex was into drugs? He’d turned up to their reunion in a dinner jacket and carrying a briefcase - it didn’t exactly scream crack dealer, did it?_

_“We've been through this," he said. "Alex isn’t a druggy."_

_“Well, he still hasn’t explained those bruises - ”_

_“Well, I’m sure there’s a really good explanation,” Tom said, “which he’ll tell you as soon as he turns up again…” But he had a funny suspicion, through the haze of four pints, that Alex might have already left._

_“Yeah, well, when you see him you can tell him he’s welcome,” Rachel snapped, brushing uselessly at the stain on her front. Tom blinked at her, and then realised she was still stuck on the thing about the stabbing. “You know he didn’t even say thank you?”_

“So - you’re welcome,” Tom put in, helpfully.

Alex sighed. “Thanks.” Although he wasn’t exactly sure what he was supposed to be thanking Rachel for. He supposed he _had_ avoided killing himself. Just about. “Is there more?” he asked wearily.

“Well, Rachel kept bitching about it for quite a long time, and you know what Josh is like - ”

Alex groaned internally. Josh had probably got the whole story of what had happened at South Kensington. 

“ - but I reckon even Josh must’ve got bored of her in the end because the next thing I know they’re getting cosy in the corner.” Tom smirked. “Caught them coming out of Josh’s room in the morning. Don’t know who was more horrified - her or Josh.” 

“Meant for each other, those two,” Alex muttered. 

“You’d reckon so, wouldn’t you? But they avoided each other the rest of the weekend. Made breakfast on Saturday morning a right disaster. Or it would’ve done, if there hadn’t been other stuff already going down.” Tom frowned. “Why _does_ Simon Wheeler think you’re a drug dealer, exactly?”

_“Harris!”_

_Tom looked blearily up from the cereal bowl in front of him. Across the table, James Hale was wolfing down a full English, loudly declaring it was the best thing for hangovers. Tom disagreed. In fact, he was regretting coming down to breakfast at all. His head hurt, his stomach was churning, and he was starting to think that those tequila shots at the end of the night had been a bad idea._

_Even more so now Simon Wheeler had halted at his table, glaring down at him. And he did_ not _look happy._

_“Rider here?” he asked._

_“Uh…” Tom swallowed. He was finding it quite difficult to concentrate on anything more than his pounding headache. “No. Left last night.”_

_“Right.” Simon didn’t look happy. “In that case, I want a word with you.”_

_Tom shifted in his seat. He wasn’t scared of Simon, exactly, but the face scar definitely made him look even less friendly than he’d been at school._

_“You can have a word here,” he said. “I’m listening.”_

_“No, not here.” Simon put a hand on the table; leaned over so that his face was inches from Tom’s. Tom thought that was quite bold, given the high chances of him projectile vomiting at that moment. “Outside.”_

_Tom glanced at James. Helpfully, his so-called friend had taken one look at Simon and had turned around to talk to Grace Hummel instead. Tom wasn’t getting any help there._

_Not really seeing much else for it, Tom got up from his seat, and followed Simon between the tables where the rest of their classmates were eating - some looking quite fresh; others, like Tom, in various states of dishevelment - and through the doors leading out to the patio. Tom tried not to be worried. The last time he’d had a “word” alone with Simon had been in Year 10 behind the bike sheds and it had resulted in Tom being beaten up by two of Simon’s mates until Alex had turned up to finish the fight._

_“What do you want, Simon?” he asked, a bit more bravely than he felt._

_“Where’s Jockey?”_

_“Who?” Tom asked blankly._

_“Rider.”_

_Tom couldn’t help himself; he snorted. “_ Jockey? _What kind of name is that?”_

_It was the wrong thing to say. Simon’s face darkened. Tom decided to ignore the nickname and backtracked hastily instead._

_“Not here, I told you.”_

_“No. But someone said you live with him. I want the address.”_

_Tom contemplated Simon dubiously. He didn’t doubt that if he gave Simon their address, Simon would be banging down the door - maybe even breaking in - whenever he decided it suited him. Alex could take care himself all right - but what if he wasn’t there when Simon and his mates came calling? And he might not thank Tom for a brick through his window, or whatever Simon decided Alex deserved._

_“He’s away,” Tom lied._

_He’d said the wrong thing again. Maybe it was his head, maybe it was that Simon moved a lot faster than he looked capable of, but before Tom knew it, he’d been shoved forcefully up against the wall. He only just managed to stop his head from snapping back to hit the brick, but the pounding in his temples seemed to double anyway._

_“Look, Harris.” Despite the force with which he was pressing on Tom’s shoulder, Simon sounded almost reasonable. “Jockey - Rider - and I have a score to settle, see? He wanted in on my supplier deals and then he ratted me out and I got landed in the nick. So we just need to have a little chat. Dealer to dealer. To sort things out.”_

_When Tom didn’t answer, Simon shifted his weight. Tom saw the letters PDC across his knuckles as he pulled his fist back, level with Tom’s face._

_“We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Harris.”_

_Tom squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to pretend this wasn’t happening._

“I’m really sorry you got caught up with that,” Alex muttered. “I should’ve warned you.”

“What did he mean, you’ve got a score to settle?”

“I...can’t really explain,” Alex said awkwardly. It wasn’t top secret - not like a lot of the stuff Alex did - but still. It was secret enough.

Tom stared at him. “You’re - not really a drug dealer, are you?”

“What do you think?” Alex asked, exasperated. Then he frowned. “So did you give him the address?” He wouldn’t have blamed Tom if he had, but it’d be nice to know if he should expect Simon Wheeler to break down the door that evening.

“Well, luckily someone saw us…”

_Tom waited. The punch didn’t come. Instead, he heard a voice - someone else._

_“What’s going on?” A soft voice. Deep._

_“Stay out of this, Khatri,” Simon’s voice snarled._

_Tom cracked his eyes open. Kabir Khatri had come outside. He looked in much better shape than Tom did - bright and alert. He was frowning._

_“I think you should let him go,” Kabir said. He said it nicely; evenly. A bit like Alex would have done, Tom thought, dazed. It didn’t make much impression on Simon, whose lip curled as he turned his head._

_“I said stay out of this.”_

_“And I said you should let him go.” Kabir didn’t sound all that threatening, to be honest, but he stepped forward. And the thing about Kabir was that he was both tall and broad. Taller and broader than Simon. Alex had the skill to knock Simon out cold. Kabir could have won a fight on sheer size alone._

_The same thought must have occurred to Simon because he gave Tom one last shove against the wall and then let go. Tom rubbed the back of his head as Simon stepped backwards. He pointed a single finger at Tom._

_“You tell Jockey I’m coming for him,” he said. He turned. Spat at Kabir’s feet, before shoving past him and back into the restaurant._

_Kabir frowned after him before turning back to Tom._

_“Are you OK?”_

_“Yeah, fine. Thanks.” Tom straightened up, trying not to look too embarrassed._

_“Don’t worry - a similar thing happened to me about six months ago. Not with Simon, though.”_

_“Guy’s a nutjob.”_

_“Who’s Jockey?”_

_“Alex, apparently.”_

_Kabir frowned again at this. “He goes by a lot of different names, doesn’t he?”_

_Tom was too hungover to make sense of that. If he’d been feeling a bit sharper - and if Alex hadn’t run off and left Tom in trouble with Simon Wheeler - he might’ve tried to get Kabir talking about Alex so he had something to rib his best mate about later. But all he really wanted at that moment was coffee._

_“Thanks again,” was all he said instead, and stepped back through the patio doors into the restaurant._

_“Tom - hang on.”_

_Tom stopped and turned, noting only briefly that Bethany Marsh was sitting nearby, away from everyone else. She was pale and her eyes were red, but - weirder than that - someone in a suit was sitting opposite her. Even more strangely, neither of them were eating anything._

“See?” Tom said. “That’s how I knew you’d been blowing things up. I can recognise your lot in their suits from a mile off.”

He probably wasn’t wrong. Alex wondered if he ought to send Beth something. A card? A cheque? How did one say “ _sorry for terrorising you on multiple occasions_ ”?

“What did Kabir want?” he asked.

He got a smirk in response, before Tom continued.

_“You live with Alex, right?” Kabir asked._

_Tom blinked. What was it with everyone wanting to know Alex’s address all of a sudden? For someone who didn’t know the meaning of the term social life, he seemed to be weirdly popular._

_“Yeah?”_

_“Can you give him this?” Tom had noticed that Kabir had been carrying a black garment over his arm, but now he held it out. It was a dinner jacket, Tom realised. Like the one Alex had been wearing the night before._

_“How’d you get that?”_

_Kabir shifted his weight. “I - ”_

_“Eyyyy, Khatri!”_

_The too-chirpy voice cut something murderous through Tom’s headache. He grimaced as Josh Hersch joined them. He seemed to have regained some of his swagger since Tom had seen him bickering at the buffet half an hour ago. Tom would rather he hadn’t._

_“Hi, Josh.” Kabir looked wary - as anyone tended to when Josh approached them. “How are you?”_

_“How’re_ you, _more like,” Josh said with a grin, punching Kabir on the arm. “Someone just told me they saw you coming out of a broom cupboard last night! Go on - tell us who you were with, then?”_

_Kabir didn’t answer. He was suddenly looking ill. Tom looked down at the jacket. And knew._

“I can’t believe you didn’t _tell_ me,” he said, looking reproachful. “I’m your best mate!”

“Tell you _what?_ ” Alex asked. “I was trying to get him out of danger. I didn’t realise it was a broom cupboard until I’d shut the door.”

Tom snorted. “Right. Y’know, just because it’s a school reunion doesn’t mean you have to act like we’re back in school. None of us would have minded - ”

“For the last time, I was _working._ ”

“Oh, and it just got a bit hot in the cupboard, did it? Felt like you needed to strip off some layers?”

Alex made a small noise of frustration. “He swapped jackets with me so I could throw off the tail I had.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “Y’know, they should really teach you better lies at spy school.”

There was no arguing with Tom when he was like this. Alex huffed a sigh. 

“Can I have my jacket, then?”

“Oh, no,” said Tom breezily. “I left it in the restaurant.”

“You remembered the laptop bag, but not - ” Alex stopped. He wasn’t sure why he was surprised. “Never mind,” he said. He’d claim expenses on it. Collateral damage. Except he had actually quite liked that jacket. He supposed he ought to be grateful about the fact he’d managed to escape the Brooklands reunion relatively unscathed. 

He quite wanted to ask if Kabir had said anything else, but he didn’t think he should encourage Tom, who was looking far too pleased with himself. Instead, he stretched out his legs again and lay back against the cushions. 

“So good weekend?”

Tom shrugged. “It was fine. Glad we don’t have to do it again for another decade.” He paused. Then: “There’s really nothing going on with you and Kabir?”

Alex could feel a dull flush rise at the back of his neck and was glad Tom couldn’t see. “There’s really nothing going on,” he said firmly.

“Well, then,” said Tom, and there was something entirely too sly in his expression for Alex’s liking, “if there’s nothing there then I suppose I can get rid of this.” He dug in his pocket and came out with a business card. “Was trying to be a good wingman but since you don’t need it…”

Alex was still, eying the card between Tom’s fingers. He knew the ribbing he’d be in for if he took it. On the other hand, he still had Kabir’s jacket. His original plan had been to access the mission report for the blown Polish operation, because he was pretty sure his handler had made sure she’d recorded Kabir’s information in it even if she hadn’t had him sign the OSA. But that would raise eyebrows. And was stupid when Tom already had Kabir’s contact details. 

He sighed and held out his hand. “Only because I have to give his jacket back.” 

Tom shot him a victorious look and slapped it into his hand. “Let me know how the date goes.”

“There’s not going to be a date.” Alex turned the card over; admired the handwriting on the back. “I’m just going to drop off his jacket. Nothing else.”

“If you ask me, you owe him at least a drink, mate. You know he thought you’d _died_?”

Alex felt like he'd been dunked into something very cold. “What’re you talking about?”

“Yeah - it was the weirdest thing. He said he’d seen your car all smashed up on Fleet Street and a body bag.” Tom paused. “I mean, obviously it wasn’t you, but…”

No; it hadn’t been Alex. But it had been supposed to make people believe it was him (or Alexei Oblonsky, anyway). He just hadn’t expected “people” to include anyone who _knew_ him. Including Kabir. There was an awful, heavy feeling in Alex’s chest. _A body bag_. Christ. What must Kabir have felt?

“Yeah, definitely weird.” Alex hoped it didn’t sound as hollow as it felt. 

“Yeah. Well,” Tom said, obviously uncomfortable at Alex’s sudden change in mood, “you owe me a drink too, after all that crap.”

“You’re the one who wanted me there.”

“Not to spend five minutes creating chaos before ditching me to deal with the fall-out.”

“Don’t know what you’re complaining about,” Alex said, at last lifting his gaze at last from the business card. “Sounds like you had a blast.”

Tom made a face at the joke. “I’m done with you,” he said, heaving himself off the sofa. “Go and make apologies to your boyfriend. I’m out.”

“He’s not - ” Alex started, but Tom had already picked up his weekend bag and wandered off.

* * *

Exactly a fortnight after Kabir's secondary school reunion - where he'd dropped his glass of Coke on being confronted with the sight of a man he thought had died in a tragic car accident on Fleet Street - he received an unexpected knock on the door of his flat.

It was lucky he was in, really. A Friday night at seven o’clock - there was usually a good chance he’d still be at work. But a deal had been wrapped up at five o’clock that afternoon, and Kabir had had the good sense to escape from his desk before he could be roped into anything else. He’d got home at six, taken a shower, and had been lounging on his sofa ever since, enjoying doing nothing for the first time in a while, and vaguely contemplating a Deliveroo.

He didn’t really think twice about the knock at the door. Yes, the block of mansion flats he lived in was only accessible via a single door you needed a fob for, unless you rang the buzzer, but he was on pretty good terms with his neighbours and it wasn’t unusual for one of them to knock to borrow something. 

But when he opened the door, it wasn’t one of the neighbours. It was Alex Rider, blond hair damp from the drizzle outside, a pale linen garment over his arm and holding a brown paper bag.

For several seconds, Kabir could only stare. There was the question of how Alex had got in, for a start. But more than that. Kabir had spent a full six months believing Alex was dead. The knowledge had sat on his chest like a heavy sort of weight, a constant lingering guilt that he should have done something - anything - to stop Alex getting into the car in Bouverie Street car park. Seeing Alex at the reunion - _alive_ \- had seemed like some sort of miracle, and it had spurred Kabir into action. Taught him that you didn’t take things for granted. So when Tom Harris had given him a small smirk and asked for his number - on the supposed basis Alex would want to thank him - Kabir had scribbled his mobile down on the back of his business card and handed it over, even though six months ago he might’ve blushed and stammered and wondered if it was some sort of joke.

But Alex hadn’t phoned. Or texted. And the days had dragged on and Kabir had forced the whole thing from his mind.

Now Alex was here. With Kabir’s jacket. And what appeared to be a takeaway.

“Evening.” Alex was the first to speak. His lips twisted - maybe from amusement at Kabir’s gape. “Is this a bad time?”

Kabir wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say to that. If he said no, he’d look like a loser that didn’t have any weekend plans. If he said yes, he imagined Alex would turn around and leave.

“No, I just got off work,” he settled on, deciding which bothered him more. And then, because he needed _some_ answers: “Didn’t Tom give you my card?”

“Er - yeah, he did.” Alex rubbed the back of his neck with his spare hand. “But I had your jacket, so…”

“How’d you know where I lived?”

A small smile. “You updated your contact details in the alumni directory at the reunion.”

He had. But Alex hadn’t needed to go to the trouble of looking him up; he’d had Kabir’s business address. He could have sent the jacket there. Instead he’d turned up personally. With food. Vegetarian food, if the branding on the bag was anything to go by.

It was difficult to stop a warm feeling spreading through his chest. His lips pulled into a smile.

“So,” Alex said, his own smile widening too, “can I come in, then?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's done! Thank you all so much for the support, we have been so grateful for it. We hope you enjoyed reading as much as we enjoyed writing it!
> 
> Postscript from Lil Lupin: A special thank you to Valaks, for being the very best of collab partners. You are so very talented and fun and I'm so blessed to have you as a friend. It's been such an honor to write this with you. (And, yes, that is an extra thanks for putting up with my British spelling and other general British-isms for all these weeks.)
> 
> Postscript from Valak: No U. 
> 
> I had a /blast/ too and have really /gotten/ to know all your favorite writing quirks. I’ve leaned so much in our collab about you as a writer and person but also writing as an art form. You’re incredibly talented and I adored getting to see your writing process. 
> 
> But also you act like we don’t already have our next collab planned, you muppet. XD


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